


Muscle Memory

by heyfrenchfreudiana



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst, Chile - Freeform, Clueless Men, Domestic Avengers, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fake Marriage, I Don't Even Know, Its Steve's OK no body better be shocked by this, Magical Healing Cock, Mind Control, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Natasha Feels, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pregnancy, Prompt Fic, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Steve Feels, Trust Issues, WIP, a little blood and gore in ch 12, double amnesia, hawkingbird mentioned, no one knows anything, uncooperative characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 76,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfrenchfreudiana/pseuds/heyfrenchfreudiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a glorious tumblr prompt:</p><p>Steve and Natasha are fake married for an undercover mission that goes wrong. When both wake up, any memories of who they are or what they were doing have been erased. The only thing that they do know is that they are both wearing wedding rings. </p><p>If we both have amnesia, and all we have are our feelings, could we start a life together? If we don't have to run away to forget the world, could we have a piece of happiness just the two of us?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yvonne228](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yvonne228).



> based on [this amazing prompt](http://scarlettjuicehansson.tumblr.com/post/121556402520/steve-and-natasha-go-undercover-as-a-married)
> 
> (@ScarlettJuiceHansson IDK if you are on A03 but your prompt omg it's been haunting me for about 2 months).
> 
> Written with as much thought and care and respect as I can. Definitely bastardized version of the original prompt as I know nothing of Europe. 
> 
> Will try to update weekly.

_I don't need a husband, don't need no wife_  
_And don't need the day, I don't need the night_  
_And I don't need the birds let them fly away_  
_And I don't want the clouds, they never seem to stay_

_-Florence and the Machine, Leave My Body_

 

Snow.

She could hear it crunch around her and she thought about keeping very still as she lay, registering that her fingers were numbing as they curled around the cold snow, soft but yet still digging under her fingernails and sending shivers through her entire body. No color, but she figured it made sense because her eyes were closed. When she listened, she could make out the sound of voices, distant and muffled. As though her ears were plugged up with cotton balls.

“I’m glad you were able to make it to her bedside. Very impressive,” she was able to focus on someone speaking near her. _Male. Soft-spoken but authoritative._ Her brain started categorizing and parsing, collecting any information given without even knowing who was speaking. _Observe,_ she repeated to herself as she listened. Even though she couldn’t quite put her finger on the meaning behind his words, she felt relieved to at least hear them, because it meant that she was alive and that she wasn’t alone.

“Is she okay? Is she going to wake up?”

And then there was a second voice, one that hit her consciousness suddenly, as though it had combed through thick branches to reach her. _This one is familiar_. A steady baritone that warmed her up, as much as sounds can do that sort of thing.

 _Oh good. He’s here, I can go back to sleep,_ she felt herself relax into her thoughts. Because she _was_ tired. And curiously sore, her muscles heavy and groaning as if she’d just fought her way through hell. There was a muddy and dull pressure in the back of her head and it hurt to breathe, but it was something she decided she could worry about later because _he was there_.

“Oh yes, definitely. Must have hit her head on something before you two came in but she’s just as lucky as you are, Señor Roberts…”

At the mention of his name, her brain snagged, like someone stepping on an icy twig to interrupt her rest. It was annoying, didn’t feel right and her fingers twitched just at the sound. The throbbing behind her eyes intensified and she knew she should probably try to get up, except that the snow was so soothing and she really didn’t want to move…

“Señora…” the original voice called out gently, “Señora Roberts, good morning…”

“Should I…”

“Yes, of course you can touch her.”

And then the ice around her hand felt warmer.   As much as she had felt comfort in the snow, the warmth did feel better. Enough that she wondered if maybe she could get more of it, if maybe she could be convinced to move out of the cold after all…

“What do I call her…”

“Of course. Natalie Roberts, according to identification but I don’t know if you have any other names. A nickname. If you can recall…”

“Right. Natalie…” the voice repeated slowly as though it was new information.

She curled her fingers because in fact, she found she wanted more of the heat on her hand. She was tired and cold and her skull pulsated but she liked the heat, the way it felt soft instead of sharp and cutting. It made her want to move.

She hadn’t figured it out until a steady beep poked through the cloudiness of her mind, because that _that_ didn’t fit with her original information, that she was laying somewhere in a snowy wilderness, the pain peaceful enough that she thought she could rest there forever. The beep merged with the warmth of her hand and then she could feel her toes again, could feel a new consciousness creep through her. Like a curtain being lifted, slowly and deliberately.

She wasn’t in the snow. It didn’t fit, not with the beeping and the context of the voices and the heat.

“Nat…Natalie…” the baritone called out, in tune with the feel of something tickling the back of her hand. And then an insistent stroke on her hairline. Nurturing. She wanted to lean into all of it, the sounds and the touch, even as heavy as she felt.

“Your wife is just taking a little nap, Señor Roberts. I’m sure she’ll wake up shortly. I’m sure I don’t understand just how you both made it out without more…”

They couldn’t be talking about her. Made it out of where? Without more of what? She willed her body to move or kick or something because the word _wife_ didn’t make sense at all. Something was not right or logical and the only way to set things straight would be to say something.

Even if the labels didn’t make sense, it was enough to orient her because then she knew she wasn’t actually in snow.

Not snow.

Not snow at all.

A bed. A stiff mattress and a scratchy cotton blanket.

She let her mind go back to categorizing the information she had. Not snow. Men. She didn’t want to open her eyes, didn’t want to leave the comfort of the quiet but it was not snow and someone had to say something. Whether she liked it or not, because they were talking about her and she had missing pieces of information because they were obviously mistaken.

When she peeked her eyes open, slowly at first, she tried not to focus on the fact that all of the pain had centralized into her eyelids, or how bright things felt. What was important was getting her bearings. Recognizing that she was in her body, that she was connected to an IV and a heart monitor (hence the beeping), and that she’d been covered with a thick flannel blanket that didn’t feel thick enough.

“ _Hola_ , Señora.”

She looked up to see the owner of at least one of the men who had been murmuring about her as though she hadn’t been there as listening the entire time. Her first thought when her eyes focused on the short man with pale skin and dark hair, was that he looked younger than his voice. Her second was that he looked like a banker, even though he was wearing a crisp white jacket and _medicina_ neatly embroidered onto his lapel.

“Doctor Velasco, _a sus ordenes_. I’m surprised you are awake, Mrs. Roberts,” he patted her hand gently, emphasizing the “missus” with pride and even excitement at showing off his English.

“That’s not my name,” she croaked, her voice scratching against her throat.

“Here,” he reached over to the nightstand at her side for a glass of water. “Try not to worry too much about that for the moment.”

She took a sip, wincing as the cool liquid hit her windpipes. “My head…”

And then her train of thought was interrupted by a clear cough, a reminder that there had been two voices, and that the doctor with the baby face wasn’t the baritone.

“Hi,” he said, his forehead creased as if in apology. As if he wasn’t sure what she’d expected but that he knew she’d expected something different.

She didn’t say anything, just studied him as though her silence gave her the advantage.

His voice matched his face much better than the dark-haired doctor’s had. When her baritone met her eyes, unflinching under her inspection, she noted the goosebumps on her forearms. She didn’t know or didn’t remember a lot of things. Her name. Where she was. Who he was, even though the conversation that had woken her up had promised he was important. She wasn’t really even sure of the color of her own hair. But when she looked into his eyes, marred only by a deep purple bruise on one cheek and a busted lip, it was like the first time that she’d heard his voice. Something about the blue-grey made sense, like a piece of the puzzle that actually fit.

She knew him. She opened her mouth to say his name but nothing came out, her tongue trapped because she’d had a name, or at least what felt like a name, and her body had almost remembered to say something. A missed synapse or something more terrifying, and all she could do was close her mouth and watch him nod.

“Your husband is experiencing a bit of memory loss, Señora. We think he must have had some kind of head injury before you arrived last night, though with how fast you both are recovering, it’s fascinating how there is any trauma at all…”

She watched as her baritone pursed his lips while looking at her, as if studying her too. He kept his eyes focused, as though in silent interrogation, though she was tempted to tell him he was wasting his time if he thought she knew anything. She envied him that he’d been awake longer, as though he had been given access to more information than her. He hadn’t said anything, was just observing as the doctor filled her in on what he thought she needed to know. They’d arrived the night before, her unconscious and him just barely, and they’d both looked like they’d been to a warzone, but no one really knew much more except for the details of identification on their person.

“Truth be told, the scene of you carrying your wife into our hospital has several of our nurses swooning,” the doctor said with amusement. “They say it was very romantic…”

“ _No ya ne zhenat_ …” she whispered, though she hadn’t meant to interrupt and didn’t understand at first why the doctor was looking at her so curiously.

“Señora, I apologize. I assumed you were American, based on your identification. Your husband seems to speak only English, I just thought… perhaps if you could translate?”

Another piece of information, another clue that she could only file away for later. Because the words- _Russian?_ \- had tumbled out before she’d been able to think about them.

“But I’m not married,” she made eye contact again with the man they said was her husband, hoping to get more clues out of his reaction by repeating what she'd said in English.

“I didn’t think I was either,” he said quietly before reaching out to touch her, drawing her attention to her hand. To the simple gold band on his ring finger and the matching one she hadn’t realized she was wearing.

***

When he woke up, he’d had a sense of déjà vu. He couldn't say why, but it was as though it wasn't the first time he'd woken up not sure of where he was or how much time has passed. It wasn't the first time that he'd woken up with an overwhelming sense of _this isn't right, I shouldn't be alive._

Except for the extra layer of not knowing what would be right. Not just _where, why, how_ , and _when_ but also _who_. As in _who is my doctor_ , and _why am I suspicious_ , but also quite plainly, _who am I_?

The nurse that arrived when he was awake only gave a small gasp, as though surprised his eyes had opened at all.   She left quickly, turning on her heels before he could ask her anything, and then he was left alone to stare at the wall. He’d been hooked up to a monitor and when he pulled the cuff off his finger, the machine next to him had beeped angrily.

He hadn’t meant to rush, except that something in his bones had told him to _move_. That déjà vu that said he was missing something, that the only way to figure it all out would be to get out of there ( _where?_ ) as soon as possible.

“ _Buenos dias_ , Señor Roberts,” he’d heard someone say as he was on the floor looking for shoes or something to cover his bare feet. “ _Hablais el castellano_?”

“Shoes,” he’d answered, looking over his shoulder to see a short man in a white labcoat standing in front of him with his hand out as if either to shake or to help him up. He’d had an idea an idea of what the man was saying, but the end goal really was to leave, wasn’t it? “Where are my shoes?”

“ _Ah, mira!  El habla inglés!_ ” the man had turned his head to speak to the nurse standing beside him. “ _Florencia,ya has comprobado sus signos vitales_?”

The woman, the same one who he’d seen earlier, moved from her defensive position behind the man in the white labcoat and pulled at the stethoscope hanging around her neck. He stepped back as she approached, earning a laugh from the other man.

“Señor Roberts, this is our nurse, Florencia. And my name is Doctor Velasco. I’m in charge of both you and your wife…”

He’d been on his hands and knees with his head under the bed when he’d heard the tail-end of the doctor’s explanation.

_Wife._

When the doctor said it, it was almost as if he’d been talking about another case. His first instinct was to shake his head at the obvious misunderstanding, but when he looked down and his eyes focused on the ring around his finger…

“Where…” he closed his eyes and sat back on his heels, taking the moment to recognize that he was only wearing a simple blue hospital gown, that it wasn’t as though he could logically flee even with shoes. So the question of “where” fit everything, even his clothes.

“Where is your wife?” the doctor motioned for him to sit down on the bed. “In recovery but stable. Just down the hall, if you’d like to visit later… we hadn’t expected you to wake up so soon. I’m afraid you frightened _Señorita_ Florencia a little.”

He considered the value in continuing the circular volley of questions. The doctor didn’t seem threatening or intentional in his withholding of questions but it was still maddening how much he didn’t know. How lost he was. Deciding to comply for the moment, he sat on the bed and focused on the band hugging his finger.

“Where am I?” he asked, putting as much authority into his voice as he could. He knew on instinct that it wouldn’t be difficult to immobilize the doctor or his nurse, that he really could use minimal force, but he also knew that if the doctor was as benign as he appeared, the right look would effectively communicate authority.

The doctor accepted the stethoscope from Florencia and began his own analysis, checking heart, pulse, breathing, offering little hums as he pushed the cold metal on bare skin. “Do you remember what happened?”

And with that question came the clear awareness. A one-word answer that was as frightening as it was paralyzing.

He really had no idea.

The doctor squinted at the answer, scratching notes in a spiral-bound pad of paper kept in his pocket. “You and your wife arrived last night. You carried her in and collapsed at the door. Unresponsive, both of you.”

He tried to make meaning out of the doctor’s report, to remember coming in. To remember anything. It was as though his mind had been wiped, like a chalkboard, with only traces of whatever had been written down there lingering and only if he squinted. Flashes of old radio music and twinkling stars, silver cut-outs that reflected and spun and made no sense. And the cold. He could remember the cold, feeling his veins so cold he could swear his veins had icicles inside.

He could not remember getting to the hospital. It was the top of a neverending list of things he didn’t know. As the list grew, so did the panic that dug its heels into his chest.

The doctor hummed and asked questions. Easy questions like the date and if he could tell his right from his left. Harder questions like his own date of birth and where he was from.

And then silence.

“I will have a nurse bring your things,” the doctor said cautiously. “It could assist in the recollection…If you will allow me to confer with some colleagues before I offer any other concrete information, Señor Roberts.”

_That’s not my name…_

***

Two yellow plastic bags. Clues that he felt like he should savor, each article offering another puzzle piece. At first, he’d considered waiting until the other woman woke up or at least until they said that he could see her. There was a chance she’d be able to set everything straight, or at least to fill in the gaps. It was reasonable to expect that she’d be able to give him what the doctor couldn’t. All of the “w’s” that the doctor provided with a shrug of his shoulder and small measures of caution. _Who. What. Where. When._

It boiled down to trust, and whether or not he trusted anyone to tell him anything that he couldn’t touch and see with his own hands. He knew that the truth in its contents could have been manipulated, were only as real as he would let it be but it was worth a shot.

It was that déjà vu that made him suspicious. _Things aren’t always what they appear to be. Truth isn’t always what people want you to see._

Clothes. A blue sweatshirt and jeans that he was grateful for because then at least he could wear something that felt human. They didn’t feel any more or less his than the man down the hall’s, but they felt normal. Thick tube socks that felt just right and he supposed he at least remembered how to put a pair of pants on. At least he wasn’t an invalid. The cotton and denim was comforting. Not a significant clue to anything but at least he wasn’t bound by the hospital gown anymore.

In his own clothes, wearing the tennis shoes that he knew were his and not the woman’s, he felt capable of looking through the bag with more intention and focus. The obvious first choice was the brown leather wallet and he admittedly held his breath when he opened it. The contents weren’t surprising but weren’t especially helpful either. Multi-colored bills in shades of purples, reds, blues, yellows, and greens with lots of zeros and the words _Banco Central de Chile_. Enough cash to go far, he hoped, and at least an idea that he was in South America. The real clue was the picture that stared up at him, underneath big blue letters that spelled out what he supposed was his home state of Indiana.

There he was, looking stone-faced into the camera. It was him, he knew it was, and he could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The thick plastic of identification told him that he- or at least the man staring back at him- was indeed who the doctor had said he was.

“Stefan Roberts,” he read it out loud, hoping that if he read his name slowly it would click. “What a dumb name.”

There it was. Stefan Roberts. Born on April 10, 1986. Lives in Indianapolis. Organ donor who doesn’t smile at the camera, like a schmuck.

He flipped the card over a few times before sliding it back into the wallet so that he could check the rest of the contents in the bag. What he got was that the other pair of jeans belonged to someone significantly smaller. And then he was pulling out socks and a grey sweater that he let himself inhale because it smelled like flowers. A lacy black bra that he examined, though he wasn’t sure why, until he reminded himself that he wasn’t going to get anywhere by staring at underwear no matter how hypnotic. Her identification in a thin billfold that he was surprised held anything at all.

_Natalie Roberts. January 13, 1988._

_Blonde waves and not quite a smile._

She looked happy. At least the woman who they said he was married to looked happy when she took a driver’s license photo.

He slid his index finger along the pocket that held her own supply of money and pulled out a neatly folded white piece of paper. Again he wondered if he should feel guilty about going through her things while she slept. He decided that he couldn’t feel guilty for invading the privacy of someone he didn’t know, at least not consciously. Unfolding it carefully, he read the pen-scratched lines with desperation.

_Nat,_

_“Scars are just another kind of memory.”_

_― M.L. Stedman_

_Steve R._

Resisting the urge to crumble it up and throw it across the room, he did his best to put her wallet back together before placing it neatly into one of her black tennis shoes. All that he had learned was that his wife was small, smiling, and maybe sentimental. He hoped he was Steve.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #heavy breathing 
> 
> I'm really ambivalent about giving translations but I will let you know of a few, noting that this fic might have a lot of Spanish. Most of the Spanish is my own with a bit of help from Sunnie91. If anyone has any quarrels about it, please let me know as that is something I really care about.  
> a sus ordenes- at your service.  
> Hablais el castellano?- do you speak Spanish?  
> El habla inglés!...ya has comprobado sus signos vitales?- Oh wow (?) he speaks English! Hey, Flo, have you already checked his vital signs?
> 
> #escrito por una gringa #se arrepienta de todo


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is me offering sincerest apologies for the delay in updating. Right out of the gate, really? In my defense, I have been traveling. And I am home now so things should get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to some youtube playlist that included "hits from the 30's"; half-beta'd by Spanglecap

 

“I’d like some time alone with my husband,” she said calmly, biting the inside of her cheek as the doctor scribbled notes about her mental status and apparent lack of physical trauma.   She hadn’t been awake for long before figuring out that she was in South America, either Chile or Argentina by the accent, and the fact that she even knew that gave her mixed feelings. _Hope and frustration._ How incapable could she be, how much damage to her head could have been done in whatever had happened before, if she could figure out by the doctor’s verb conjugations that one of them was the foreigner?

Her alleged husband kept his focus on her, eyes burning into her and she had no doubts he was watching every facial expression, sound, and twitch she made. Not that she wasn’t paying attention either. She watched as he curled his fingers into his jeans whenever she said she didn’t know something or wasn’t sure. And whether voluntarily or just to see what she’d do, he hadn’t helped her come up with any answers, which added to her own feelings of helplessness.

If they were both clueless, as it appeared, then it was like the blind leading the blind. She couldn’t even wrap her head around what it meant that neither of them could produce any productive information. That he kept his focus on her made her stomach knot tightly. _Who was he?_

It was when he interrupted the doctor to ask her again who she was, his voice firm as he leaned forward in his chair, that she understood that he was feeling the same suspicion she was.

He was waiting for her to lie. To prove that she’d been malingering the whole time, even if he wasn’t.

“I’ve already said that I don’t know,” she narrowed her eyes slightly before reigning in her emotions. “Why don’t you tell me?”

It was a power struggle, though she figured she had the upper hand when he answered by looking down at his lap.

“For fuck’s sake,” she mumbled, noting that the doctor’s eyes had widened in response to the tension. “You keep asking me questions I don’t have answers to. And I think that if anyone should be asking, it’s me.”

She would have kept going except that the throbbing she’d felt when she’d first opened her eyes had returned, perhaps a persistent reminder that it wouldn’t help anyone for her to lose her temper. So she held back and demanded the doctor give her and the man with the baritone voice some alone time.   She held back, masterfully quelling the irritation that she felt at everything. At the way her head ached, at the way the doctor asked her about her name and who she was, at the way she didn’t know. A bubbling irritation at the way _he_ just sat there, arms crossed and not helping her with any of the answers at all.

Doctor Velasco gave a quick nod and wrote something down and she noted a sudden ramble in his speech. “Yes, I think that’s a good idea. Are you hungry? Let me tell Florencia to arrange for tea. This…is so curious…”

“That would be very kind,” she smiled politely, taking a deep breath in her nose. “And I see that my husband, Mister…Roberts…is wearing clothes. Can I have my things as well?”

“Curious?” her husband repeated their doctor’s words.

“Yes, your husband has those things,” the doctor answered her first, taking a step towards the door before continuing. “Yes, curious. Is that the word? Because you are strange to each other.”

“Strange…” she tipped her head, her thoughts turning to the promise of food and clothes that covered her body more than the gown had.

“Strange. Un…known. _Desconocidos,_ ”he explained. “I’m tempted to call the press, because maybe you have family…”

“No,” her husband responded curtly even as she’d opened her mouth to say the same thing.

“I think discretion would be better, Doctor Velasco,” she shook her head, using the same smooth voice that she’d used to ask for her clothes and time alone. “We have already managed so much with just your capable professionalism alone and I think any further exposure might shake up that progress.”

“ _Claro_ ,” the doctor nodded. “Though I would like to speak to a colleague in the city. I do think this is a little out of my _specialty_ …”

“Mister Roberts and I will discuss this over that tea you promised,” she let herself smile a little, hoping that a little minor flirtation would afford them some peace and quiet.

“ _Unas tomografías_ …” the doctor bit the tip of his pen, eyes focused somewhere else. “Yes, I think I will need help…”

“Doctor Velasco,” she moved so that her body was positioned towards him. “I appreciate your professional concern but I insist on privacy. We are already so much better, I’m sure we just had some bumps on the head.”

Her baritone took in his own deep breath and she wondered if he could hear just how thick she was laying on the charm and coquettish faith in their doctor’s abilities.

“You are better,” the doctor agreed slowly. “But I don’t want to miss anything…”

“You have been incredible so far,” the other man held his hand out to shake. “But I agree with my…Natalie.”

She tried not to roll her eyes at his hesitation to say “wife”, ignoring the sound of her name because _they weren’t going to get anywhere if he couldn’t play along._

The doctor took her alleged husband’s hand and she decided that they had at least laid the ground work for convincing him to discharge them. She didn’t know many things but she figured that there was a lot she wouldn’t learn if she was sitting barely clothed in a hospital in who-knew-where. Allowing herself a glance at her wedding ring, she chewed over the possibility that everything that had been presented thus far had at least some shades of truth. The doctor had been somewhat forthcoming and the baritone…Mister Roberts…

“Would it be possible for someone to collect Natalie’s things from my room?” he asked as he retreated until the back of his thighs were touching her bed. He started to sit before looking over at her, and then he was standing straight as a wire, as though some unconscious line had been crossed. A line that would surely be nonexistent if he remembered that they were married.

She decided that Mister Roberts had at least been honest about his own disorientation.

The doctor consented again and dismissed himself, perhaps wanting to indulge a young couple in some needed time to reunite and reconnect. She stilled the instinct to flee, telling her heart to stop pounding as he excused himself and allowed them the time they’d asked for.

They spent the first five minutes in silence. Even though his uncertainty had done enough to relax her suspicions that he was lying, she still wasn’t sure where to start. Without the distraction of the doctor’s humming and notetaking, she was able to really feel the weight of where she was and what little truth she had.

“It… will feel better when you have your clothes,” he broke the silence and let his hand touch the foot of her bed.

“Do you really not remember anything?” she looked down and pulled her knees up so that she could hug something. She felt like a child, lost except that she didn’t even know what to look for. He didn’t and she knew that, but she wondered if she’d get a different answer if she asked it again.

“Do you?” he answered, this time with none of the underlying confrontation she’d detected earlier. She noted how he stood at her bed again, not touching her the way a concerned husband might. Even without his identity, she wondered how much of who he was before their mystery accident was still there.

He didn’t touch her the way she’d expected a husband to, but she was able to admit that he might have lost a hand if he’d tried.

The question of who the man was standing at her side dug into her, perhaps because it illuminated so many of the things about herself that she was grasping to know. Was she really married to him? _How did that happen?_ He stood like a soldier, even when he’d relaxed enough to touch her blanket, with his back straight and the other arm tucked behind. She wondered if she loved him, or if she was supposed to. The consolation to the heavy news that she was someone’s wife was that he at least felt like someone she could imagine herself with, not that she was an expert in her own tastes as of late. Even with a straight face and calculated movement, she could appreciate the pout of his lower lip and the angle of his jawline. At least her pre-memory-loss self hadn’t been blind.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, motioning to his cheek. He touched the bruise gently, as though he'd forgotten, but she noticed that he kept his face hardened.

“What about you? Do you have any cuts or bruises?” he asked and she shrugged. Nothing she could feel, aside from her head.

“So, Mister Roberts,” she sighed, pulling at her ring. “Do you have a plan? Or a name? What do you know?”

“I know…” she watched as he eyed her ring finger. “That your name is Natalie Roberts, at least according to your driver’s license. And that my name is Stefan…”

“It doesn’t sound right, does it?” she ran her hands through her hair, making a mental note to ask the nurse for a hair tie.

“I know that we are in Chile. And that there was an accident last night,” he continued reviewing the information.

“What kind of accident. Is this permanent?” she quelled the panic bubbling underneath her skin. _Natalie._ She wavered on whether or not it fit, on whether or not she could take ownership of the name.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think anyone knows. Something to do with our heads.”

“Car accident?” she offered, interrupted by a soft knock on the door. She decided she would have to ask the doctor about wreckage later.

“ _Con permiso…Les traigo algo para comer_ ,” their nurse spoke softly, a tray with teacups and bread rolls in hands and a yellow plastic bag hanging from her wrist.

“ _Pasa_ ,” she shrugged, pausing to note that she’d answered the nurse in Spanish without thinking. It added to the list of things she knew about herself. _Married. Multi-lingual. Totally clueless._

“ _Lo dejar_ _é_ _acá…”_ the nurse walked over to the bedside table, not looking at either of them, as if she’d been warned by the doctor of the tension. She- _Natalie_ \- examined the tray, her mouth watering at the side of bread and cheese and steaming cups of dark tea. Signaling with her chin to her husband, she raised an eyebrow and waited for the nurse to hand her the yellow bag.

“ _Su ropa,_ _Señora_ ,” Florencia handed over the contents. She said a few more things but Natalie blocked her out as she opened the bag. _Clothes._ A piece of who she was or at least who she would have to be until she remembered better. She’d started taking her gown off before she had even finished pulling out the contents.

“I’ll just… excuse me,” her husband stammered and moved to the door. She looked down at her bare breasts and then back as he stood, eyes to the floor and hands in pockets. The nurse’s mouth twitched in a small smile at his apparent embarrassment and Natalie wondered if it had been too much to expect, getting dressed in front of someone she was supposedly in a committed relationship with. It wasn’t like anything either he or the nurse hadn't seen before, wasn’t like she was coming on to him. Did he think there was some kind of cultural line being crossed in being present when his wife changed? Something to offend Chilean sensibilities?

She considered saying something but thought better, voting instead to pull out a dark bra from the bag. It was too cold to think about his feelings and the soft cashmere of the sweater on her body had more priority.

Fully clothed, she could feel around for the rest of the secrets her bag had held for her. A key in her back pocket with a red plastic keychain that read _mi casa es su casa_ on one side _,_ a series of numbers scratched on the other _. Home._ Hopefully, theirs. A thin, black wallet that made her hold her breath.

Identification. Proof that she was real.

She touched her own hair as she examined her likeness. Blonde. She wondered if her hair had always been that color, if she’d been as light-haired since birth as the name that the documentation said was hers. _Natalie_. _Blonde._ _Married._ She shut the wallet before any feelings could take over, before the fear that stabbed at her throat could escape. Answers and she didn’t feel any less lost.

“There’s a note…” he said after time had passed, the nurse had long excused herself, and he’d managed to edge himself back toward her bedside. “I looked. Sorry.”

She didn’t answer, instead considering again how apologetic and careful he was. Had they always been so careful? What kind of couple had they been? She hoped that they hadn’t always tiptoed, that he hadn’t always looked at her cautiously, as though she was covered in neon warning signs.

“I think I wrote it. I don’t know. But you kept it. It’s in your billfold…”

She bit the inside of her cheek and reopened the wallet that she’d kept in her lap, peeking inside. There it was, a small piece of paper that provided another window into who they were.

“Nat…” she read it out loud. A small tug at her gut to the sound of her name as she admitted it. “Do you think I’m Nat?”

“Do you have any scars?” he answered her with another question, their adopted pattern of communication. She shrugged and twisted her body around, examining her hands, her arms as far as her sleeves would let her. It was a good question, thought she knew the note could have referred to any number of things, that scars weren’t always visable. Maybe even things that she’d been blessed to forget about.

“Let’s pretend…that you are Nat and I’m Steve,” he pulled a chair over so that he could sit next to their cooled tea and bread.

It was a logical suggestion but she bristled at the inherent idea of letting him make any choices for her. As if accepting a nickname meant that she had to accept the blindness and uncertainty, as well as the truth laid out before her. It involved trusting him, something she found instinctively hard to do.

Except that she could remember how calming his voice had been earlier. Hearing him talk to the doctor had been what had pulled her out of her own distorted sleep and hadn’t she also instinctively felt safe just at the knowledge that he was near?

“Ok, Steve,” she let her shoulders relax as she reached for a piece of bread. “Let’s pretend. Until we know better.”

They ate in silence and she was grateful, because she was sure it was the best bread she’d ever had in her life (a supposition she recognized she couldn’t corroborate). Steve didn’t even chew his bread, as though he hadn’t eaten in days, (that this was possible was another thing she recognized).

“I think we can ask for more food,” she said after he’d finished eating his portion and was picking at the crumbs. “But I meant what I said earlier. I’d also like to go home.”

“Where?” he drank the cold tea in front of him. Grimacing because nothing sounded less appetizing than tea that was supposed to be hot, she tossed him the keyring. She didn’t have to say that she didn’t know. Instead she put her feet on the ground and stood up to look for a bathroom. A mirror so that she could compare her face with the one in her wallet.

***

It was like meeting someone for the first time, looking at yourself in the mirror when you weren't sure what to expect. Steve felt a tinge of compassion when she disappeared into the bathroom, and he wondered how she would react to meeting herself. Her response would be another glimpse into who she was, even though he felt like he was eavesdropping while he waited for her. He felt guilty for his interest in her emotions, even though he knew it was logical.

He didn’t know her. A part of him did, he hoped, but the bigger part was missing any connections. The same part that had kept an eye on her in case she revealed anything that would click with why he’d felt so threatened. As though she was the source of the fear that he pretended wasn’t there.

_Something happened. To me. To us._

Would she cry? Was she hysterical in nature? He'd felt only resignation at seeing his own reflection, at palming the stubble growth on his chin and careful examination of the cut on his face that looked old enough for him to guess it had happened long before the assault against his memory. Resignation and acceptance. There he was and it made sense, which in and of itself was nice in light of all of the other little pieces of who he was that felt wrong.

_And now I am lost._

He waited and watched for her to come out, choosing to spend the time going over again what they knew but also what tentative plans could be made. If, as he'd suggested, they allowed themselves to pretend and adopt the identities they'd been presented with, she was right that it made sense to go home. Neither of them had any incapacitating injuries or handicaps, aside from the obvious. He thought about what felt right and made sense. If he was Steve and she was Nat, the concept of “home” was enticing and even hopeful.

Why were they in Chile? Vacation? Did they live there? “Home” would have answers.

She came out of the restroom with control on her face, but he caught that she had pulled her hands into her sleeves, as if to hide any feelings that might reveal a little truth. She'd pulled her hair back and he knew his heart was racing as he let himself mentally trace the lines and curves of her face and throat. He wondered if she would be offended that he was finding himself fixated on the peek of her clavicle from her sweater, on the mysterious and perfect elegance of her neck. If she would mind that even just in that little skin he could see, he was escaping into fantasy of what it would be like- _what it must have been like_ \- to feel her pulse, to press his lips against the spot below her ear so that he could whisper all of his secrets, even if he didn't have anything to hide.

Her throat was bare. He hoped his pre-memory loss self had had the sense to buy her more jewelry than she could stand. Another question he would have to answer another time.

"I'm not blonde," she said calmly, as if reporting the weather. She was across the room thumbing through their things before he could translate what that meant.

"Oh," he answered, not sure what else to say. _Oh you aren't blonde and that means you just spent quality time studying your body and... Oh._

"And, yes, I do have scars," she continued, answering an earlier question he hadn’t expected to get an answer to, as she stared at the keychain she'd had in her back pocket.

"What kind?" he asked, jealous that she could have gotten so much of herself in five minutes alone. She didn't answer, instead reaching for the button to call the nurse. He decided he'd find out later, if it was important.

"Si, Señora?" Florencia came by quickly.

"Teléfono, por favor,"

“Why?” he asked as the nurse pulled a cellphone out of her pocket.

Giving him an expectant look, Natalie held her hand out for the key he’d been holding. “Do you want to go home?”

And he watched, possibly with his jaw on the floor, as his wife calmly dialed a phone number on their nurse’s phone, as she flipped the red keychain in between her fingers while she conversed cooly with someone, no hint of concern of uncertainty in her voice.

She spoke Spanish. He didn’t know if that was strange or not but he remembered that only hours earlier she’d been speaking in Russian. It was one of the few clues about who she was that he had. He didn’t know what she was saying but she spoke as if whoever she was talking to expected her call, as if it was a phone call she had had many times.

When she hung up, she looked triumphant and relieved and he noted that both he and Florencia were waiting open-mouthed for answers.

“We have a ride home,” she smiled slightly, her shoulders back as she followed her announcement with the request to their nurse for someone to let Doctor Velasco know that they were ready to be discharged.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> desconocidos= unknown  
> tomografias= CAT scans  
> Con permiso…Les traigo algo para comer= Excuse me, I brought/am bringing you guys something to eat  
> Pasa= come in (and also raisin hahahahaaaa)  
> lo dejare aca= I will put it here (thankkkkssssss sunni!)


	3. buckle my shoe...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> going home...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much appreciation to everyone who has encouraged and for everyone's patience and grace. I hate writing gaps just as much as anyone else and I promise that it's all pregnancy hormones. 
> 
> half-beta'd by Spanglecap. Quality control, folks. Quality control.

_Mentira vendida/_ _Moralidad que me intoxica_  
_Mentira escondida/_ _Flagelo que mi corazón no olvida_  
_Mentira las tentaciones destructivas_  
  
_Mi corazón/_ _Late por ti_  
_Dentro de mí_  
_Mi corazón/_ _Nunca dejó_  
_Tu corazón  
_

-B. Cuevas

The tentative diagnosis was a mystery form of amnesia. Natalie did not miss that the doctor never actually used the word “amnesia", instead throwing out words like “cognición” and “a largo plazo." Cognition and long-term memory and she tried to steady herself instead of jumping to conclusions because a formal diagnosis didn’t really matter as much as understanding how she’d gotten that angry pink scar on her stomach, the one she’d seen under her own inspections in the bathroom alone, the one that looked like it had only just finished healing. For better or for worse, Doctor Velasco kept things simple, following vague answers about their diagnoses and then reciting different instructions for how to care for injuries and what to do if things worsened after they’d been released, as if a part of him was relieved to be done with their mystery case.

_Prescriptions for rest and paracetamol. Call if sleep or appetite is affected. Return if headaches (Nat’s) worsen or if basic cognitive functioning becomes impaired. Call neurologist in the capital to confirm appointments for further testing and to discuss therapeutic options._

The root of their memory loss was missing. And it was terrifying, something that Natalie could tentatively admit to herself because all she had was her own honesty. It was a deeper violation than she supposed most would have imagined, because she couldn’t remember how all that she was had been wiped away or what had happened before she’d woken up. A blank slate. Erased and all that she hated and feared but also all that she loved was missing.

And Dr. Velasco was shit at answers. All he’d given them was that they’d come into the hospital like chaos. Blood and dirt and disoriented panic, with no coherency from anyone about where they’d come from.

 _It was a slow night. Not a lot happens here, you see. And when you came… you weren’t awake at all. Your husband… <pause to look at Steve> he was carrying you and I thought you were dead. Because you weren’t moving. He looked like a steam train, _cierto _Florencia? I didn’t think anything was wrong with you, until you let us take your wife, except for the cuts on your face…Let? …Well, he didn’t want to let you go, not even for…_

It had taken both security guards and all nurses on staff to sedate Steve, a call Velasco had made under the impression that he was high on something. Slurred speech, irrationality, extreme strength, Velasco explained while sitting across from them in that clausterphobic hospital room. They sat side by side on her bed and alternated in pushing, in circular questions and then direct interrogation even though everyone knew that it was pointless. _What about the nurses? Did Florencia know anything? Weren’t there any police reports? Why didn’t he call the authorities if he thought Steve was intoxicated?_

For all his charm and kindness, Doctor Velasco was a paragon of incompetence. (Naturally, Nat decided, because what else from their caught-in-a-smalltown-with-no-memory-hell was missing besides an incompetent doctor? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.)

At the mention of drugs, Nat looked over at Steve, who had his hands on his hips and a jaw so tight she thought it might crack. Though he was trying to hide it, he seemed _defensive._ Offended at the possibility, which was ridiculous because he couldn’t very well deny anything he couldn’t remember. She’d been about to ask the doctor for something, until she was distracted by her partner’s (partner?) indignance and the impatience he exuded like little micro-waves that tickled at her hairline. He’d taken her cues earlier, and they’d played off each other well. Not “good-cop, bad-cop” though she felt herself slip every once in a while toward an impatient edge. A sliver of _thrill_ when she heard the words “I don’t know” with a tinge of panic or when the Doctor seemed even slightly uncomfortable or unsure, and then she could visualize what it would be like to grab him by the throat until he was choking out answers and begging her for mercy.

She tried not to think about the implications and what it meant that she was analyzing different ways to incapacitate her doctor, making him hurt just a little for his ignorance.

A touch on her elbow and she could tell Steve was paying attention to her reactions, a reminder that they were still reading each other as much as their doctor. Acknowledgement that they were both keyed up and an anchor to the ground because being combative wouldn’t solve anything for either of them.

She took a deep breath and assessed the situation at hand, in combination with the end goal. Going home.

“We appreciate your care, Doctor Velasco,” Natalie smiled, “but we do have a friend coming…”

He didn’t have any evidence to prove it and it wasn’t like the hospital had the financial resources for fancy tests to give them any relevant information. But more than anything, being there made her skin vibrate. Frustration defined because she couldn’t do anything. No matter how they asked, they were at a dead end.

The key, though. That had been like a light in the darkness, once she’d realized it was a phone number. Little numbers scratched into the red plastic and it had been a prayer that the person on the other end would be able to help, that it wasn’t the number to something random like a pizza delivery service.

“ _Señora Roberts, a sus ordenes,” a rough voice answered as if her call was expected, not random at all._

_“I’d like to ask you for a ride home,” she explained carefully, hoping that the person on the other end wouldn’t find that strange._

_“Of course,” he’d answered. “Just let me know where you would like to go. I can be at your house in five minutes.”_

Finding the number, even though the number’s owner was still a mystery, had been a hopeful sign. Even though nothing about it “clicked,” it was a breadcrumb. Indicators of their past lives, and some of the truth in what they'd been told. They didn’t belong in the stasis of where they had woken up, because whoever had answered the phone knew her. Knew where she lived and had responded to her calm request for help with familiarity. Their ride had sounded sincerely concerned when she’d explained that they were actually at the hospital, but hadn’t pressed for details, which was a relief. One person who hadn’t been asking _who_ or _why,_ a luxury in short supply for both of them.

“Are you sure? Who is this?” her husband had asked and she couldn’t fault the caution, not if she had her own misgivings.

“I don’t think asking me anything would be productive today, Steve,” she’d warned in hushed tones. That the nurse seemingly only spoke Spanish had already given her a sense of false-privacy, as though they were alone when they weren’t. Florencia had long given up trying to listen when they talked in English, her ears no longer pricking up when she came in to check vitals or make notes. “If you are still feeling unsure or like you need to stay, stay. I’m going to find out where we live. I’m going home.”

***

Armed with instructions and phone numbers for follow-up and emergencies, they stood at the hospital doors much like newborns. He considered reaching out for her hand because it felt like something he should do, especially in light of who she was supposed to be. Lacing of fingers to communicate that things would be okay, even if they didn’t _feel_ okay, because they were alive and had each other. Did she need to feel the warmth of his skin? The feel of blood and pulse and body heat even in something as small had palm and fingers, as much as he did? He wasn’t sure and not knowing was enough to hold him back.

That she had found a way to get them smoothly out of their doctor’s watchful-if-cursory-care had been a win, and he hoped that she would understand that he was grateful even if cautious. When he looked over at her and watched as she studied their environment, he thought about who she could possibly be. _Who are you? I don’t know you. Who are you?_

She’d been so tough, he’d already seen that one hundred times over, in the way she stiffened when she signed her own hospital release forms with a quick “x” because nothing else felt right and in the way she folded slightly when the nurses had given her a kiss on the cheek goodbye. Like she was still assessing who she was and what her capacities for any more revelations were, like the weight of the world was easier carried if she could pretend that she wasn’t as terrified as he was by the fact that they only had each other, that all that they knew was as tenuous as wet paper.

Leaving the hospital. He hoped it would help. Hoped it would make things clear. The possibility of what they would find once they left, once they got to wherever home was…

Steve tried to steady himself for easy. He couldn't let himself think about why they had seemed so alone in the hospital, why everything had felt so dark and overwhelming. Not without facts. Whatever had happened or why they had seemed so...stranded...

It was still daytime when they finally were given permission to wait for whoever their ride was, and he took the information in as fast as he could. A small town, that much he'd figured, though full of the sounds of car motors and people. They weren’t alone, not with other hospital visitors in different states pacing the small patch of grass near the exit. Not with the small crowd of teenagers just outside the blue metal fence that gated them in.

The car that pulled up in front of them seemed newer than most of the cars he’d seen passing them by, the faded black-and-yellow Nissans that choked and groaned as they drove down the main street in front of the hospital. Steve wasn’t even sure if it was the car that they’d been waiting for until a short man with grey hair and a quick step exited and was opening the backseat door closest to where they’d been standing. He watched as Natalie sidled next to him, as if to grab onto his arm, until the man had spoken and confirmed, at least for her, that he was the phone number she’d called.

He couldn’t help but feel relief when his wife and the driver started talking, even though he didn’t know what they were saying. Not lengthy conversation, and then she was motioning for Steve to climb into the car and she was sitting next to him, one leg crossed over the other as though they weren’t sharing the backseat of a small sedan with a stranger, as though letting the strange man take the wheel was something that they’d done once or twice before.

“His wife is bringing us bread,” she shrugged when they’d started their drive. “I guess that’s something she does.”

“Who is he?” he asked as he looked outside the window and the town, as he made a mental map of the different street names that they’d passed and the various landmarks. An old brown-brick church surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. A long wall with unintelligible graffiti that he thought might count as art if it wasn’t such blatant vandalism. Flower shop, bank, street vendor selling popcorn and peanuts. Not quite bucolic, though he tried not to make judgments of the town based on the dirt roads and how many times they’d passed a stray dog. Not quite quaint, but certainly small as they’d gone from one end of town to the other in only minutes.

Nothing that that offered any insight into why they were there.

“For now, let’s just call him someone who knows us, someone who is driving us home,” she shrugged and reached for her wallet, interrupting any further questions he might have with the question of “ _cuanto_?” for their driver.

“I should pay for that,” he touched her wrist as she pulled out a light green bill. She froze and he wondered if it had been part of their marriage that she got the tab, wondered if maybe it had been something that he’d been okay with, or if it had been a source of contention. “I mean, it just seems like the kind of thing I’d do for my wife…”

She didn’t say anything, only nodded and put her wallet away, allowing him the chance to go through his own money. It felt like a crisis averted, like there was something there that neither of them knew how to talk about because neither of them knew _why._ Why it had felt like a power struggle, why it had seemed important for him to tell her that he could take care of it, as though paying for a cab ride was the equivalent of saying that he could take care of her, even though he was aware that it probably also looked like he was making sure that she knew that he was the man, as if whether or not the cab driver was paid by husband versus wife was an indicator of dick size or something.

She hadn’t fought him, had consented easily enough, but she also didn’t look at him. Steve said a silent prayer that their home would open doors to memories, that it wouldn’t always be tense and awkward. He hoped whatever they had would be made clear, and that even though she’d demonstrated steely capability and independence, that maybe she’d also remember that he was capable too. Even though he didn’t remember her, didn’t remember marrying her or loving her, he hoped he’d be able to give her what she needed.

A series of turns later and they were passing what Steve guessed was the residential section of town. Pink apartment buildings and blue houses with clotheslines hanging from the windows, and he wondered what could have possibly brought them there, to a small town where they depended on phone numbers for transportation and bread. The driver pulled up in front of a yellow one-story, a black hammer and nail painted on one wall, and it was a clear a signal as Steve could have asked for that they were home.

“ _Gracias,_ ” Natalie said as she opened the door and slid out. The grey-haired man grunted, said what Steve would later learn was just “have a good day,” and then was driving away, leaving them standing in front of the yellow house with only each other and the red plastic keychain.

If she was nervous when she pushed the key into the doorknob, he couldn’t tell, something he decided was comforting. They belonged there, at least according to logic and the taxi driver’s cues, at the doorstep of the little stucco home that was only just less yellow than a school bus. Had she hesitated, held her breath, looked at him with even a shade of uncertainty, and he didn’t know if he would have been able to keep from sharing his own misgivings. It would have been another chance to show her that he was strong, even if he didn’t feel it.

He wondered when the switch had happened, between waiting for her to give him answers and catching her in lies, and wanting to at least see if the role he’d been given fit. When a full plate of caution had morphed into caution with ribbons of wanting to at least play the part, even if he didn’t remember it, as though part of his genetic code implied that there were things he was supposed to do and feel if he really was her husband.

When she opened the door and they stood in the entryway, he checked himself again to see if anything connected. Their home. It wasn’t that he’d had any expectations about what their home would be like, wasn’t that he’d even had time to imagine. He only knew for certain about five things about himself, and even less about her, and so he couldn’t have formed any fantasies about what the home of Mr. and Mrs. Stefan Roberts even looked like.

“How long have we been here?” she put words to his thoughts, the question coming out softly, a genuine and valid question because it looked as if whoever lived there barely lived there at all.

A glass tumbler on the dark wooden coffee table, a faded brown couch. Enough that Steve couldn’t say the place looked deserted. And yet, missing signs of life that he would have anticipated had he allowed himself to think so far ahead. No pictures, not anywhere, no television, no adornments at all.

“Are you sure this is our place?” he asked, walking over to a floor lamp, because even though it was still daylight outside, it was surprisingly dark.

Natalie didn’t answer, and he watched as she picked up the cup and made her way through the rest of the house, her face as blank as their walls. He followed her into their small kitchen but stood in the doorway as she walked over to the sink.

“Not long, I don’t think…” she said as she opened the cupboards. Empty. A cup, a mug. A couple of plates. A can opener as the fanciest thing that they even had to show that they were even remotely domestic. “I guess I don’t cook.”

“Maybe I do,” he offered but she shook her head after she’d opened the fridge, which held a few beer bottles and a couple of yogurt cups. It was clear that neither of them did, at least not really, though he hoped there was a back-up plan in place in the near future because he was pretty sure he wouldn’t survive on beer and yogurt.

“We should go to the store or something,” she said with furrowed brows, as if the emptiness had surprised her also, and he wanted to find out if anything resonated but she was moving around him to finish her tour of the house.

The question of whether or not they were even supposed to be there wasn’t answered until they’d reached the bedroom, until they’d found the black duffel bags against the closet door and she was combing through clothes that looked compatible with what she was wearing. It was obvious, even though they hadn’t acknowledged it, that they hadn’t been living there long. That maybe they’d just arrived and were waiting for something when whatever had happened…

She pulled sweaters and pants and socks out and he busied himself with as many further observations as he could make. He could hear the neighbors, loud rock music playing on the other side of the wall he realized they shared, considered whether or not they even knew who they lived next to. If they’d even had the chance for introductions. Maybe not, he rationalized as he opened the closet door and eyed the collection of briefcases that lined the floor, each the color of gunmetal. It took only jiggling the locks to understand that they’d kept something important there.

Not that he’d remember the combinations if he couldn’t remember his own name.

“You found something?” she walked over and he handed her the case he’d only barely started working on.

“Does this make any sense to you?” he asked as she carried the case over to their bed, distracted again by what was missing. The bed, neatly made and covered with faded flannel like the blanket he’d been covered with in the hospital, and only two pillows. Functional instead of inviting. A place where they slept, because sleep is necessary for survival, with no indication of anything else done there.

Natalie was quiet as she fiddled with the combinations and he watched as she drew her bottom lip in, as she tried in vain to pop the locks.

“I can’t remember,” she muttered, barely audible, and then she was looking up at him, eyes open wider than he’d seen and it was like she was asking him to deliver on those protective instincts, asking for him to take the slack for a second while she processed another locked door.

The doctor had said he’d carried her in, that he’d had to be sedated just so that they could hold her, and he’d interpreted the scene as desperate and tense. As though letting her go, even to the doctors and nurses, had been a negotiation. Had he protected her then? That he wasn’t sure created a knot in his stomach that felt heavy and unforgiving.

Steve sat next to her and sighed, mind searching for ways to make it better. It was hard to know what to say or how to scratch the surface of what either of them needed, hard to know where their boundaries where or what kind of history they had. All that was certain were his gut feelings, which told him that they’d at least known each other.

“Did you look in your suitcase?” she asked. He hadn’t. Hadn’t even noticed his own black duffel bag until she’d said something. Expecting sweaters, finding their passports had been enough that he heard her small gasp.

“Can I?” she asked before reaching over his body to take her booklet from his hands. A sudden move and she was in his space, her body close enough to feel like instinct.

“Of course,” he muttered, refocusing his attention on his own passport, which had only confirmed the information he’d been given at the hospital. A photo slid out of one of the back pages. She’d seen it and there they were, staring at a glossy three by five of themselves.

“You’re right. You aren’t blond,” he said dumbly, not sure what else to say. There they were, sitting side-by-side in a darkened room, her smiling for the camera. She had a beer bottle in hand and he’d never thought he’d seen anything sexier. By the way he looked at her in the photo, it seemed safe to bet that he’d always felt that way.

“Told you,” she said. She sounded shaky, surprised by the glimpse into who they were, and he watched as her fingertips touched her red-hair. “Where do you think we were? Who’s that?”

“Hmmm?” he hadn’t noticed, but then she was pointing it out. Someone’s hand on her shoulder, the one that had been next to him, peeking out as a sign of life, a sign that they hadn’t always been isolated and alone.

“It looks like this photo was trimmed, Steve,” she scrunched up her face and then stood up, handing him the photo. Any proximity they’d shared looking at photos and memories evaporated, a switch turned off and she was standing in their closet with her back to him.

He shrugged his shoulders in response, not sure what else he could possibly say. “It seems like that’s a running theme.”

“Why don’t we have things, Steve?” she asked, voice calmer than the question might merit. “Who are we?”

He didn’t have an answer, though he wished he did, for the both of them. Saying they had each other was unsatisfactory and he knew it.

“I need a minute,” she announced, disappearing into the hallway before he could say anything. He heard a door shut and figured she was in their bathroom, something confirmed by the sound of running water.

***

The water wasn’t cold enough. _That’s not right. It’s pretty damn cold._

Natalie scrubbed at her face as the water hit her skin, her eyes burning from the fatigue of the day. A vain attempt to feel clean. As if the temperature of the water might correlate to the cloudiness in her mind.

Her mind was at war with itself, exhaustion not helping the myopia and confusion because all she wanted to do was curl into a ball on the floor and sleep until things made sense, ignoring hunger or thirst. Small mercy that her headache had finally lifted because the anxiety that had tickled and then shot through her in waves certainly didn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon.

Their lives, _her_ life. All she had were missing pieces. Locks and cropped photographs and hints at who they were. She should have been grateful for what they’d found, they hadn’t been awake for even twenty-four hours. What she’d told Doctor Velasco had been true- they had recovered in leaps and bounds. Her headaches. Hell, Steve’s cheek was already turning yellow and hadn’t it been purple that morning? The broken shell of who they were was mending. She should have been grateful.

Sitting on the lid of the toilet, she pulled her ring off and held it up to the light. A thin gold band, light against her palm and she wondered how much they’d spent on it, (in terms of time and money). Maybe what they had was romantic. Two people who didn’t have much of anything except a series of mystery silver briefcases and each other. Maybe that was how they’d found themselves in the middle of nowhere. Maybe she’d been so feverishly in love with him that she’d dismissed the importance of kitchen appliances and…(a quick glance of their bathroom told her) towels.

Slipping the ring back onto its home on her pointer, she closed her eyes and leaned back, the hum of the tank more comfort than annoyance. Interrupted by the sound of a knock on the door.

“I’m going to go look for food…I’ll be right back,” he announced.

He had been cautious, she’d caught it and fed off of it. She knew it made sense, they’d only known each other for a day. He was all she had, she knew that. Partners. Together. _Fucking married._ But strangers nonetheless, dancing around each other like two boxers circling each other in preparation for a fight. Or maybe she’d misinterpreted. She wasn’t sure. Every move he’d made seemed tentative. A constant “are you sure? Is this okay?” and she honestly didn’t even know what _was_ okay, but she couldn’t say she’d missed how he’d looked at her in the photograph tucked into his passport.

Her hand traveled underneath her sweater to the scar she’d found earlier on her stomach. A flat stomach. A strong one that told her that she’d treated her body well before the accident. And a mystery scar that she didn’t want to think about because that would mean guessing at how it had happened and _oh, she’d already had enough for the day_.

When she opened the bathroom door, she could hear him rustling through the drawers, a productive sound that had her wondering what it would cost her to play house, especially if going through the motions might help her remember.

“I think we should go shopping tomorrow,” she suggested softly.

“It was probably something we’d been about to do anyway,” he responded, his back turned to her. A peek at the countertop proved that he’d hunted out pizza. She thought she could taste it based solely on the smell. What else could he hunt for? The thought crossed her mind as her eyes swept over his frame, over the hard curves of his shoulders and the strength of his back.

_Maybe we were running away…_

_***_

_He didn’t want to let you go, not even for the emergency care you needed at the time. Oxygen and fluids, Señora, but he didn’t believe me that we were saving your life, said he’d kill me if you died, and I know he could have so I was glad when the sedatives kicked in…_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested, the translation to the lyrics at the top are:  
> http://lyricstranslate.com/en/mentira-lie.html-1 
> 
> Available to listen here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1dcXgGQT2M
> 
> Today's Spanish lesson- a largo plazo= long term (as in long-term memory)


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more and more and more. With gracias to Spanglecap and Dresupi.
> 
> *self-beta'd for errors, including an entire paragraph in the Clint section that was somehow missing jfc.

_ And I, then I woke up from the middle of the strangest dream _  
_ And everyone was there that I ever knew and they all began to sing_  
_ Hold you head high, just as high as you can _  
_ Things will work out soon, things will come round again _  
_ You see I've got this fascination with all the wrong ways to go_  
_ I get lost even in the places that I know **  
**_

_- Erika Wennerstrom, Heartless Bastards_

**4**

**Re: Risk Prevention**

**Your cat attacked me like it hasn’t eaten in weeks. You’re welcome.**

**-C**

In their line of work, words like “commitment” were often taken pretty loosely. Commitment suggested permanency, after all. The kind of thing someone said when they were ready to retire, or when they were really drunk and stupid. The latter being something that Clint Barton could spend hours telling stories about. _Mostly his._ He’d actually looked the definition up once, of the word commit, out of curiosity and after an ex had accused him of being unable to do so.

Commitment. _A promise to do or give something._ _A promise to be loyal to someone or something._

Clint could with certainty say that he was committed to his job. He was committed to order, insofar as doing his job in helping to maintain it, to keeping the bad guys down, to doing the right thing. There were a lot of words and nuances there, but at the end of the day, thinking about them was the kind of thing he would have done in his twenties. He was too old for that shit.

There were a handful of people who he’d been committed to in his lifetime. Even less that he was still committed to years later. Bosses, ex-somethings, even family. Committing to a brand of underwear was easier. He figured an essay could be written about that. Did commitment imply receiving something in return? Was the choice to commit null and void once it became clear that the other person no longer gave a fuck?

The older he got, the harder it had been to answer that question. Even before he claimed loyalty and allegiance to his job, Clint figured that there were probably two people not including himself that he would give anything to. And even above himself, something he’d had to weigh a few times more than was probably healthy. Part of working in espionage. Part of working as an Avenger. Those bumper-sticker cute nuances he wasn’t going to think about anymore.

For the time being, he found himself temporarily committed to Natasha Romanoff’s cat. _Christ on a cracker._

The black short-hair was hers, though she’d never admit it and not that he’d ever push her to. Asking someone who’d been a spy for longer than she’d had her adult teeth to take in words like “ownership” was akin to asking him to explain his issues with commitment. She owned a toothbrush, she’d say, and he’d give her that one even though it was clear that she’d owned a great deal more in her lifetime. There’d been a time in her life when she’d barely owned the toothbrush, something he’d seen with his own eyes. The last thing he was about was pushing people into fences.

The cat. He didn’t even know its name, though he’d been trying out a few here and there the handful of times he’d let himself in. Found the bag of food in her pantry next to the box of cereal that tasted like she’d had it for half a decade, wondered if the cat would even know the difference.

“C’mere, cat,” he mumbled as he tossed her mail on the bar by her front door. _Dear Resident, fifty percent off! Grand opening!_ Anonymous. Because owning even a name was dangerous.

 _“You can be called whatever you want, you know… You don’t have to go by Natalia, if you don’t want to,”_ he’d told her once after training. In the early days when words between them were few and cautious. She’d been as stubborn then as always but he knew there’d been a lot to lose in the defection, even more in switching teams. It would be awhile before he could even talk to her, even to suggest a good place for lunch, even longer before they’d become the unit that they’d grow to be, and he’d been making little suggestions about change with as much gentleness as he could find. The truth was that keeping her birth name was tantamount to suicide. The list of people who had interest in watching her die was a long one and changing her name was logical.

He could have discussed it with her using poetry and metaphors about rebirth and second chances. A sort of “ _think of this as your old self dying_ ” and “ _this is the first step towards letting go and recovering from all of the fucked up choices you’ve made and had to make_ ,” talk. But he wasn’t her therapist.

She’d had her hair long then, something he’d dared to tell her was his favorite look three years later when they (he) had been drinking. A youthfulness in the eyes that may or may not have been an act, because she certainly was older than her chronological age.

“Not just another one of your aliases though. Just something…American.” Yeah, he’d admit he’d thrown the last part in there to help her save face, not that she needed his help for anything. And by that time, he’d already figured he’d fucked up the entire topic, probably pissed her off though she always fought harder when she was lit up so that wasn’t so bad. She’d surprised him when she’d interrupted his train of thought to announce that she’d already thought about it.

“Natasha Romanoff,” she’d told him with all of the confidence and composure that he knew was hiding a web of internal conflict and emotion. She didn’t have to explain because he’d lived that life before. What was unsaid was loud and clear. _Natalia Alianova Romanova. It doesn’t matter that the KGB has a price on her head. She’s already dead. I killed her._

Like it was easy.

Well, he had decided. She certainly deserved easy. In spades.

Maybe she’d owned that. Owned her name. And he’d seen her come to own her life. Cutting her hair. Picking her own clothes. Hell, choosing her battles, even if that meant going off the grid for awhile and leaving a random stray cat in his care.

“Claudette,” he said as he put the plastic bowl on the floor. “Maybe that’s your name.”

The cat seemed more concerned with getting fed to care. Like talking to a wall.

Clint rolled his eyes. He’d never been a fan of cats anyway. Too fucking independent. He could say he’d done his duty though, fulfilled that commitment.

He crossed his fingers that she’d stocked her fridge with anything to drink so he could take a minute. Check his email, see if he’d gotten texts from anyone important. Take a seat at the kitchen table he doubted she’d ever used.

No phone calls or from her and he ignored the voice in the back of his mind that thought it was strange. Natasha didn’t check in with him when she was away, didn’t need to, though they’d talked about it. He knew she thought she owed him a great many things but she was an adult at the end of the day, calling him to let him know she’d arrived safely and that she’d had her three meals put him in a position that he certainly wasn’t comfortable with. Even if he had been blessed with the father-savior complex she didn’t want or need, Natasha worked alone.

Mostly alone. Wherever she was during her current run, Rogers was with her. Clint didn’t know if he’d tagged along as muscle or shear boredom, couldn’t imagine that Natasha would have asked for a bodyguard. Any kind of partnering work and she would have recruited Clint, at least logically. It wasn’t a secret that Cap was about as good at pretending to be someone he wasn’t as Clint was at pretending not to panic after the third date.

_If ever anyone could teach a lesson on what commitment looked like…_

Maybe he was just looking for a vacation in Tahiti. Maybe he’d decided he could use a little freelance work of his own. The exact words Clint had used when the Cap’s friend had walked up to him in the gym that morning.

“Yeah, no doubt, but Steve’s not Natasha. He doesn’t go off the grid,” Sam had chuckled though Clint could see the concern. And ordinarily, Clint might have even made a snide joke about why Sam was so concerned. _What’s it been? A week? And why do you need him to check in? You two got something going that the rest of us don’t know about?_

Clint could be many things. He could even be an asshole. But poking fun at the younger man’s concern would have been pretty hypocritical. Even if he wasn’t Natasha’s keeper, he couldn’t say with a clear conscience he’d never worried when she’d been silent too long.

“Maybe Nat has a lead on Barnes,” Clint had shrugged, pointing out the one clear reason why Natasha might enlist Steve Rogers’ help over anyone else. “Honestly, who the fuck knows…”

He hadn’t meant the last line to come out so blasé. But Sam had taken the hint anyway, hands in pockets and signaling that he’d picked up the message that maybe he was overreacting just a little.

“I gotcha. But I’m gonna keep my ears open anyway. Let me know if you hear from Natasha?”

Clint had agreed though in the moment, he’d done so largely to placate the other guy. She was fine. Especially if Rogers was with her.

“Look, a week. They’ve been gone a week. That’s pocket change. She’s got his back.”

As he’d said it, Clint could feel the hair on the back of his arms standing up. Instincts. A gut feeling. He could play it off as Sam Wilson finding a way to get him riled up over nothing. Steve hadn’t called but that wasn’t anything to sound any alarms over.

The cat liked having her chin scratched. Clint hadn’t even realized he was doing it until he was sitting at Natasha’s table with a ball of fur and whiskers purring on his lap while he finished his beer and listed all of the reasons he shouldn’t be concerned.

Before he left, he sent a quick email, not because he wanted her to know that he was worried or anything. Just a line to let her know that her cat was starving and if she wanted to respond, that was her choice, America being a free country and all. When he left, he’d already decided to intentionally forget about any concerns Wilson might have. She would have rolled her eyes and punched his arm if he’d done otherwise.

***

“Where do we sleep?”

It was a good question for perfect strangers to ask and Natalie was relieved that Steve had said something about it first. When he asked, she noted the slight flush in his cheeks and then she couldn’t hide a small smile. She’d been picking at the crumbs on her plate and just about to ask the same thing but had held back only because even though they were strangers, they weren’t.

“I think we sleep in the bedroom,” she answered. “Unless you had another plan.”

“The bedroom,” he nodded. “I just… Jesus, this is awkward.”

She didn’t have to push him to explain, though a part of her wanted to. Wanted to hear him talk about it, about what they were missing and all of the ways in which it was bizarre and awkward. They had reviewed, again, what they knew. They had gone over the plan for the following day, which included figuring out how to open their luggage and going to the store for food and kitchen utensils. But then the conversation had lulled. There was so much that they couldn’t talk about. A history that was non-existent, not that she hadn’t tried. Even questions like what they liked to eat or what they did for fun were vague.

They’d been wiped clean.

If Steve talked about why it was strange, he’d be putting meaning to her feelings. Confirming a part of her own experience as truth, something that she felt greedy for.

“Bedroom. It’s what married people do, Steve,” she said with resolve. The other choices included one of them sleeping on the floor or on the couch and she wouldn’t have stopped him if he’d wanted to. Distance in place of closeness that they had no basis for. Married people slept together, stole covers from each other, complained about one another’s cold feet in the middle of the night. People who had only just met did not.

“Right,” he answered slowly and Natalie couldn’t help feeling her heart drop, even though she knew it didn’t make sense.

He was a stranger. She couldn’t be offended or emotional if he hesitated. He was a stranger to himself as much to her and if he couldn’t even tell her his favorite ice cream flavor, he couldn’t fairly be held responsible for his uncertainty. Hell, she didn’t even know her _own_ favorite flavor. They were partnered together and logic said they should have known each other. When she allowed herself the chance to give him a good hard look, logic said that they should have known each other intimately and well.

He wasn’t sure but she wasn’t either.

“Look. Let’s just start with sleep. We are adults, after all, right?”

“Yeah, I guess we are…”

Whoever they’d been before, it was clear that they weren’t up to much more. Combing through her belongings, she noted what was definitely missing. No fancy underwear, no lacy negligee to be worn only to be taken off. Just a pair of black cotton pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. Maybe the sort of sleepwear worn by a bride who had been married for a while or who was at least comfortable with her spouse. And it wasn’t that Natalie had expected them to behave like newlyweds, but the thought had crossed her mind… Not that she wanted to seduce Steve, she didn’t even know if that was his real name.

It did open up more questions about the state of their relationship before.

The bed wasn’t much better than what they’d had in the hospital, though Natalie couldn’t say she was surprised. Precedent said that their home was based on utility and not comfort or warmth, or even sentimentality. And yet she was impressed by how tired she was, by how good it felt to slip beneath the sheets to wait for her husband.

“This isn’t our honeymoon,” she told him when she’d felt the other side of the bed dip slightly, when she could hear his breath and even feel the heat of his body as he shifted.

“Maybe not,” he said quietly, his back to her so that she couldn’t read his expressions. She reached over to turn off the lamp by her side of the bed and then it was dark, a wonderful symbol for how she felt. _The dark isn’t so bad,_ she thought as she pulled the blankets up to her chin.

“We weren’t married in that photo,” he added. “I didn’t see the rings.”

It was a detail she was surprised she’d missed, and the announcement had her head spinning. “We don’t know how old that photo is.”

When he didn’t say anything, she felt anxiety knot in her stomach. Like her insides were being squeezed and kneaded for some cruel purpose. More of the silence that they’d had off and on for the entire day, as though they’d run out of things to say. And it was curious, because she was physically and mentally tired. Exhausted from the list of things that she had learned and discovered and the things that she still didn’t know. The pull to talk, though, or just listen to him talk. Or just be close because he was someone else and someone who knew her. She felt weak for needing it.

“Does it matter?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t mind indulging her in conversation just a little longer. All of the clues they had. It was like they were stumbling in the dark together, fishing for meaning in the littlest things. No rings, no fancy underwear, no light switch to illuminate everything so that things would finally start to make sense.

“Actually,” he moved and she listened for the rustle of blankets. “I don’t know.”

When he talked, deep enough that she could almost hear the vibrations in his chest, she flashed back to the snow. To hearing his voice, like a beautiful blue note that had felt right and safe. A guiding light in a sense.

“You said that we could pretend. That I am Nat and you are Steve,” she turned to face him. He was lying on his back staring at the ceiling and for all of his caution and gentleness he looked strong then, the moonlight that peeked through the window just enough for her to drink in the sight of his shoulders.

“I did,” he acknowledged, meeting her eyes. It was dark enough that she couldn’t make out the blue in his eyes that she’d seen earlier, though she was sure she could see the worry.

“So let’s pretend. Let’s pretend that we know how we are here,” Natalie suggested, her voice breaking in betrayal. She felt desperate and ridiculous, and like she was asking for something although she wasn’t sure what. She wanted to curl against him, to lay her head on those shoulders and feel his voice rattle her organs as he talked. He was human contact. Her only human contact and the only piece of certainty she had.

“I think we are.”

She felt his fingertips graze hers, a needed acknowledgement perhaps, for how hard it was. For the fog and the fear that they would never know, that things wouldn’t get better. The idea to make something up felt dumb and unorganized, but she was grasping at straws, hoping he’d play along and indulge in the fantasy.

“We met in college…”

“We went to college?” he asked, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Is this real or…”

“Still pretend,” Natalie asserted, continuing her thoughts. “In class.”

“This sounds okay.”

“And we dated for four years and got married and we are here because…”

“Did we date that long?”

“You don’t think so?”

“Why would it take me four years to figure out that I wanted to marry you?”

“Maybe it took me four years to say yes.”

He huffed out a small laugh and she let out a deep breath because it had felt so good to have something to work with. Real or not, they had the skeleton of a story that was theirs.

***

On the first full day of domesticity, they did as they’d planned and bought silverware.

He’d woken first, long enough to spend a few minutes watching her eyes flutter as she slept and long enough to almost touch the wisps of blonde hair on her cheek. When he’d held back, it had been instinctual. His fingers inches from her face and then pulled away as if she was on fire. He didn’t know. Didn’t know her, didn’t know if touching her would be breaking a boundary, didn’t know if he even wanted to touch her.

He did. Of course he did.

The rings on their fingers said that he’d have plenty of time, that Steve could even work up to it as it felt right and as they relearned each other. No rush because she’d just been through hell, whatever or wherever that was. No rush because he wasn’t sure how much of the dull ache that was developing to pull in her into his arms and cling to her was because he’d been told that she was his. More a credit to the power of suggestion than reality. It hadn’t felt like the truth, when he’d learned it, and parts of it still felt like a dream. She was his and he was hers and they were married, knew each other and had created a life together.

Or that they were creating. Their lack of spoons and other home goods was a sign that that their house hadn’t been a home, at least not for long.

Steve distracted himself with the suitcases, pulling them one-by-one into the living room so that he could spin the number wheels in vain, just in case he won the lottery and was able to find the combination even for one. Four cases, more or less the same size and all heavy as much from the thickness of the case itself as from the mysteries inside. Who carried silver briefcases? He could list a few possibilities- gangsters, kidnappers, drug dealers- a few ideas that had his adrenaline pumping but that seemed exaggerated and dangerous.

Not that he couldn’t be dangerous, he supposed. The doctor had said he’d been restrained and sedated, that he’d been so erratic that people felt threatened. And he looked like he was in shape, maybe even like his body was part of his job.

When he concentrated, searching for anything about the cases and the possibilities and what that implied or didn’t about his life, he grounded himself on hope that what felt right was probably true. That whatever those cases were was probably innocent, that whatever had brought him and his wife to the end of the earth was moral. He imagined himself in different jobs. _Dentist, teacher, journalist._ These didn’t click anymore than the other possibilities, except that the idea of working in any capacity that caused harm to someone else made him feel sick.

Whoever he was, he wanted to be someone good. It was a thought he turned over in his mind again and again. _I want to be a good man._ Especially in light of the woman he could hear rustling quietly in the bedroom, the reminder that he wasn’t alone.

“Any news?” he asked her when she appeared, fresh-faced as though the night had treated her well.

“Nothing to report,” she shook her head and sat next to him on their old sofa, letting her hand pull at a small rip in the arm. “What about you?”

All that he could say was that he’d spent a good chunk of time fiddling with locks and obsessing over the contents of their suitcases. So he deflected, instead asking her about her head and suggesting they go out to find food.

Which was how they’d found themselves on the other side of town in a department store looking at knives.

“Which ones?” he asked as Natalie as she walked down the row with knitted brows in concentration.

“Do you think we need a cleaver?” she motioned toward the largest knife in a set with black handles.

“I… don’t know,” he answered, not really sure why it was even needed.

When they asked for store assistance in pulling the knives out of the glass case for inspection, he watched as she ran her fingertips over the blades. Using a feather light touch, she held the knives up to the light as if she could tell the difference between different sets, as if she knew which one would be better if they were making chicken or steak. And it was fascinating because it was proof that there was something still _there_ , that not all had been lost in their accident, because she didn’t know her own name but she could still identify which knife was used for fish.

“This one is for filleting, I think…” she’d said to herself. “I know this one…”

He’d been so moved at hearing her say that she knew anything that he’d signaled for the saleswoman. Natalie remembered something, which meant that she might remember more, which meant that _he_ might remember again too.


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know. I KNOW. I know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to spanglecap and dresupi for reviewing for grammar and feels, and everyone's kind messages over the last month.

_And I saw her today at the reception_  
_In her glass was a bleeding man_  
_And she was practiced at the art of deception_  
_I could tell by her blood-stained hands_

 _Oh, you can't always get what you want_  
_ But if you try sometimes you just might find_  
_You get what you need_

_ -The Rolling Stones _

_***_

Whether by custom or previous arrangements, the taxi driver’s wife brought bread every morning.

This little action, brought on by a little knock on the door and the sight of a short Chilean woman with two plastic bags of round and square-shaped white rolls that were warm enough to have been made at least the night before, formed the foundation for what would become Steve and Natalie’s post-memory loss routine. Even with all of the unknowns, they could predict sunlight streaming into the kitchen window and they could predict provisions.

On the first morning, Natalie hadn’t known what to make of their guest. Steve had been fumbling with the locks to their suitcases while she brushed her hair, an activity for her hands while she stared into nothing, while her brain went through what she knew of her life and any clues she might have for how to fix things. He looked up, met her eyes at the sound of the rapping, face concerned and betraying the same suspicion he’d had only the day before when interrogating her. They were both irrationally on edge, everything second-guessed as potential for danger. Small mercies that they’d progressed at least to masking any distrust toward each other. The next step toward that trust, perhaps.

It was natural to be on guard _except that it wasn’t_ and so when she rolled her eyes, it was as much at him as at herself. They didn’t have anything to be wary _of_ , not at present with what little facts they had.

Having amnesia meant fearing and then almost-knowing that there were secrets. It was a negative spiral of self-talk, convincing oneself that others knew the truth behind those secrets, that they were hiding the truth or lying or that maybe the right questions hadn’t been asked. And then there was paranoia. Fear that there was a reason for the secrets, a great conspiracy that was just about to be discovered.

Coupled with the panels in her mind of blank and empty spaces, Natalie also wrestled with guilt and specifically guilt over her doubts.

In wishing she could trust Steve, she felt like she was also second-guessing herself. As though she couldn’t trust her own instincts, whether to relax and feel safe or to stay on alert. The unease made her restless, as though she was playing cat and mouse with herself. After adding boredom and uncertainty about what they were doing to the mix, she wanted to run if only just to find a way to physically burn the energy created by the madness.

As they talked to the taxi driver’s wife, a woman who drowned in her sweaters and wore patterned leggings in bright colors, Natalie felt guilt for automatically suspecting that she was anyone other than who she presented herself to be. A housewife and breadmaker who brought food to paying customers, sometimes with a young child at her heels that they learned fast was her daughter, and always with an air of exhaustion and contentment.

On that first morning and even for a few mornings after, they took turns questioning her just as they had with everyone else they’d met. She answered their questions as best as she could and without judgment, as if it was normal for the American couple in the yellow house to regularly ask questions like “ _how long have you been bringing us bread?”_ and _“have you ever heard either of us talk about our work?”_

Her answers were satisfactory but incomplete, logically. _A few days? Maybe a week?_ She knew about as much as Velasco or the taxi driver or their neighbors, the young couple that played American grunge rock from the nineties late into the night. Each person giving only slices of information that Natalie struggled to piece together as she thought about each answer, puzzle pieces that made no sense in isolation. _The sum is greater than the parts._

“Do you mind if we ask you for advice on how to get around in Chile then? It seems like we’ve only just arrived and I don’t think I know even how to turn our oven on,” Natalie apologized on the second morning when it was clear that their breadmaker was another dead end. The other woman might not be able to tell them who they were but she could at least help Natalie rebuild using the pieces she had by pointing her in the general direction of how to navigate her kitchen.

With a chuckle, the taxi driver’s wife followed Natalie into the small galley, neither of them giving a second glance to the little girl in pigtails who stared shyly at Steve from the doorway, clutching a dark blue bookbag like a shield. When the older woman bent down to inspect the stove, clucking her tongue as if in disappointment, Natalie’s first thought was one of resignation. As if the stove, somehow, was indicative of yet another reason she’d unwittingly fallen short. _Wives cook and I can’t even turn our oven on._

The other woman, who smelled like flour and sweat (though not enough to be offensive) didn’t actually say anything as she stood in front of the oven. Hands on hips, she asked for matches instead of saying what Natalie had expected might be coming. Instead of the older woman issuing judgment for the state of Natalie’s kitchen, she raised an eyebrow and asked for matches.

Natalie had invited the other woman into their home in order to get answers, using the excuse of her kitchen in order to build rapport and a foothold. She was struck, as she handed the other woman matches, by how little she honestly cared about the breadmaker’s judgment of her home and its apparent barrenness. The concern was less about what their empty kitchen said about her as a wife and woman and more about what she _hoped_ the taxi driver’s wife would think about her in those areas. It felt like another facet of the same game she and Steve had been playing with each other. A manipulation.

_If she thinks I’m just a young wife trying to learn how to be more domestic, she won’t ask questions._

“I think I just need a book or something about how to live here, everything’s so new,” she explained, laying on an extra layer of charm though the disorientation and uncertainty wasn’t so hard to fake. When she combined the uncertainty with a shaky smile, she was met less with suspicion and more with light-hearted laughter. Playing the naïve foreigner wasn’t so hard.

“Things are harder in Chile,” the woman said, a tinge of deprecation in her voice. “You probably miss America.”

Natalie didn’t know if she did or not but she shrugged her shoulders in response, deciding that she’d try on some earnestness. “It’s exciting to be here, though. An adventure.”

“How long have you been married? Are there any plans for a _gringito_ soon?”

If even the thought of the wedding ring on her finger felt strange, the thought of a child was tantamount to asking if she had plans to grow a tail. But Natalie recognized that the other woman was asking the kind of question that people ask young couples all the time. _Did Mr. and Mrs. Roberts want kids?_ Fuck if she knew though she could safely say that Mrs. Roberts in present tense was definitely not interested.

“ _Recien casados_ ,” she smiled, shrugging. “One adventure at a time.”

And then she found herself leaning against the counter as a total stranger assured her she had plenty of time to have children, that she and her husband were better off waiting. _Go have fun. I know I would if I still had hips like those. Take the time to learn how to cook. Are you even cooking? Because he looks like he likes to eat._

Minutes later and she not only knew which butcher’s shop in town gave the best deals, she also knew that the taxi driver and his wife had been married for nearly a decade, that they’d had some problems conceiving, and that their seven-year old daughter was spoiled by everyone because she was the only grandchild on both sides. It was as if Natalie had suddenly gained a _friend_ , even if based on half-truths and pretenses.

Making friends, even if with someone that she was paying to come over every morning, was a step in the right direction. Natalie rationalized it as a sort-of research. She didn’t know what she was doing or even who she wanted to be, and she wondered if she could take some of the breadmaker’s cues. At least for a little while, until she remembered.

 _I can do this,_ she told herself as they exited the kitchen. Her husband had been busy making a friend of his own, seated alongside the girl that Natalie had assumed was frozen against their front door. She’d moved to the couch and there they were, hunched over a game of tic tac toe on a piece of paper that had presumably come from the bookbag tossed on the floor nearby. It was as domestic a sight as she’d seen since the first time she’d seen her own wedding ring, the blond man that she could fairly still consider a stranger at play with a pig-tailed and skinned-kneed child. Something about it was _kind_ , and that was enough to take Natalie’s breath away. The list of unknowns in their life was sinister enough that Steve entertaining a seven year old served as a hopeful glimmer.

Maybe they were who they were supposed to be.

_We’ve got this._

She told him later when their guests had left and he was rummaging through the bag of bread for a snack.

“What?” he’d asked, not even looking up though she could hear a smile in his voice.

“What what?” she asked from her spot in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed as she watched him. Analyzing him again for the thousandth time. Built like an ox and playing games with children. Another piece to the puzzle.

“She seemed bored. I have time,” he shrugged and Natalie laughed.

“You don’t have to get defensive. It was nice.”

He paused in between bites and looked at her then, as if studying her reaction, and he _was_ smiling. “You have a great laugh.”

Natalie didn’t know how to respond, noting the flutter in her stomach and then dismissing it instinctively as hunger. As if reading her mind, he handed her a roll.

“I hope that you laughed a lot before all of this,” he said softly, implicitly acknowledging the fact that neither of them knew and might never know for sure.

***

He’d gone out for air when she made her first break.

She’d taken his spot in front of the suitcases, wondering if there was a way she could just bust through them somehow. A hammer or something. He looked like he might be able to swing it hard enough. And he had to have thought the same thing, she knew, as she’d watched him spin dials and then sigh, leaning back against the couch with his head against the wall and eyes shut tight. As if the suitcases held all of the answers.

Taking her turn, she ran through a few possibilities again. Their birthdays, forwards and backwards. Major holidays _. 1-2-3-4._

Nothing, of course, except frustration and then she’d decided to get up and walk around herself. Nervous energy that had her making their bed and putting clothes in a pile against the closet door. And then she was looking around and noting the thin layer of dust. Not that they had a lot to get dusty but enough that she wondered if she had ever even tried before the accident. _Maybe I didn’t have time? Maybe it wasn’t important._

Running a finger along the lamp on the nightstand, she thought about all of the things that wives probably did, that she wasn't sure she even knew how to do. Hearth and home. Cooking and cleaning and making her man, whether he actually belonged to her or not, happy.

 _Any indicators of Steve's happiness or lack thereof aren't connected to your inability to keep a clean house,_ she reminded herself.

_Also, why the fuck do you even care?_

Instead of trying to answer that question, she found herself ripping up one of his t-shirts for scraps, the sound of it making her feel productive. Whether or not she'd cared before, she could try to care in the present. It wasn't like she had anything better to do.

It occurred to her as she wiped the lamp down, that people cleaned with more than rags and water. Another thing to add to her list of _things_ that she figured she should be paying attention to.   A mental checklist that she created as she set the rag she’d been using on the floor and walked toward the kitchen.

_If I’m who they say I am, why doesn’t this look like a home?_

_If I am who my driver’s license says I am, why don’t I feel anything different?_

_If I’m really his wife, why don’t I love him?_

Natalie sunk to her knees at the kitchen cupboard underneath the sink, silently chewing over all of the things that didn’t fit. They didn’t fit. Nothing fit, a thought that filled her with a quiet despair as she opened the cupboard door to see if she could find something that looked like anything that a normal housewife might use to dust.

She reached underneath the sink, not surprised that it was bare. No fancy spray bottles or brushes. It wasn’t a big space and she would have missed it, had she not been searching frantically for anything that might prove that she wasn’t crazy. Proof. _Here’s a bottle of bleach. See? You are someone’s housewife._

She would have missed the glint of silver had she not been looking. It wasn’t like it was hiding or anything. Creasing her forehead in uncertainty, Natalie reached forward and touched the rubbery grip with fingertips.

She may not have known her way around their home but, as it turns out, she knew her way around the handgun stashed underneath their kitchen sink. She knew the way she knew how walk or breathe, that when she let her fingers fall into the grooves on the handle, that it wouldn’t be as heavy as it might look. That she only had to pull back the slide and take out those pins in order to get to the magazine. She knew it like breathing, something she didn’t even realize she’d stopped doing until she had the shell of what she knew was a 9mm on one side of her body and a collection of springs and other pieces of metal on the other.

And then Natalie was very aware of her breathing. Very aware of the sound of her heart as it pounded in her ears, hands flat on her knees along with the realization that she had definitely remembered something.

_What the fuck. What the fuck._

She gave herself time to let those three words roll around her mind for just a second before picking up the pieces on either side of her. Reassembly was like tying her shoes and she was sure she could have done it with her eyes closed, though she kept them open so that she could see where she’d slammed the gun down into the cupboard. Pushing it back far against the wall for good measure, as though it was on fire.

_What the actual fuck._

Natalie listened for Steve before opening the drawer that now contained their silverware. A handgun. It wasn’t so extraordinary. People owned guns. It could very well make sense with whatever else they were missing in their lives. Protection. It made sense, she told herself as she sifted through the knives and forks and spoons they hadn’t even had long enough to use. Looking for something, though she didn’t want to admit even to herself what.

_Something. What?_

Natasha stood up and went to their bedroom to sit on the bed. She didn’t know her own name. Couldn’t tell anyone anything. Where she’d grown up. How they’d met. What kind of music she sang in the shower. Reaching underneath her shirt, her fingers absentmindedly traced the scar tissue she’d first seen at the hospital.

Bullet wound.

She couldn’t remember how it had hurt and how it had gotten there. Her face flushed as her fingertips danced over the bumps. She couldn’t remember.

When she stood up and looked around, she knew. The shred of doubt that she was wrong and that the gun in her kitchen was a fluke was why she almost didn’t slide a hand behind the headboard. Hoping she’d find more dust and maybe a spiderweb, she wasn’t surprised to find the pair of black gripped knives. Real knives. Not for cutting up steak though.

It made her laugh. Because Christ, what else?

There were more places than she’d probably ever have time to find, at least not before he got home, but then Natalie wondered if maybe she had lost it. If maybe she was going crazy. Blood roaring through her body, her eyes surveyed their room.

She’d meant to leave it alone. Something she could discuss with Steve later. A clue. A big fucking clue because it wasn’t just that they had a gun and a small collection of knives, but rather that she knew more about those weapons than she did about herself. In hindsight, she wasn’t really even sure why she’d kept looking until she was opening the closet to pull clothes out of their suitcases. Until she was pushing the mattress up so that she could make sure that they hadn’t somehow magically been sleeping over a hunting rifle. And then when she didn’t find anything, it only made things worse. Because she knew that there was more.

Natalie paced around the room, thinking of and then dismissing every possible hiding spot as absurd. Were they really a couple that kept weapons in drawers or underneath their bed? It sounded like a bad joke. Newlyweds from the US that sleep with pistols underneath pillows, and she figured there was a joke about the marriage bed in there somewhere. She’d been about to give up and put everything back together when her eyes darted to the lamp.

That damned lamp.

It was ridiculous. Like everything else about her life, she reasoned, as she unplugged the cream-colored base and lifted it above her head. Not giving herself time to second-guess, Natalie threw it down, jumping as it crashed into pieces at her feet.

“Kitchen’s baby sister,” she whispered as she knelt amongst the shards to pick up the 32. She wondered if whoever she really was behind the black fog of amnesia would have found the thing cute.

Final thoughts before hearing the sound of Steve’s keys in the front door.

Later, when she was lying in bed and they were listening quietly to Mick Jagger and the sounds of their grungy neighbors fucking against the thin wall that bordered their bedrooms, did she stop to think about the choice she'd made to hide what she'd found. The decision to slide the tiny gun so that it skittered across their hardwood floor to its new home underneath the nightstand. She'd move it later.

“I can’t decide if I’d like for that music to be louder or not,” he whispered, his back to her and body as stiff as a board. Natalie smiled to herself, considering the irony of the situation. She hadn’t stopped reviewing in her mind all of the possible hiding places, places she couldn’t investigate while he was there.

He’d come home to her sitting in their ransacked bedroom, and it wasn’t lost on her that he hadn’t probed her for an explanation.

“I brought ice cream,” he said, eyes surveying the damage from the doorway. “I figured that could be one more thing we learn about ourselves.”

“I was cleaning,” she confessed to his concerned expression, “and then I was looking for something but I’m not even sure what.”

Enough of the truth to get her by because he’d brought a bin over and knelt next to her, picking up shards as though it made sense that his wife would be sitting in chaos. Natalie thought about how easy it had been to hold on to the gun in their kitchen, how familiar it had been.

It had been easy. Natalie relaxed into that realization later, as they listened to their neighbors (the girl’s screams transcending language). Her thoughts raced around the possibility that she was very familiar with chaos. He’d accepted the explanation for the broken lamp without even a clue that he was suspicious, not that she could say she was an expert in reading him. And then she was not only considering the possible places where they might keep weapons but also the fact that she knew and hadn’t told him. That she’d held back and it had been instinctual.

It hadn’t been a conscious thought. She hadn’t even had time to think, “ _Does Steve know we have guns and knives all over the place? Better not tell Steve_ _…”_

The weight of what she knew was heavy, certainly heavier than the tiny pistol she knew was staring at her only feet away. It had been too easy to lie. Easy enough that she knew the way she knew her hair was red underneath the blonde, that she at least could keep secrets from him. And that in all likelihood that she could because she had. Turning onto her side, her eyes moved to the band around her finger.

“You liked the chocolate better,” she said out loud, in effort to divert her attention away from the shitty foundation of their marriage that she apparently couldn’t fix even when given a blank slate.

“You seemed partial to the vanilla,” Steve answered her back.

She thought about saying more. _Can you tell I_ _’_ _m lying? Do you think I can ever be honest? Are we ever going to natural? Were we as loud as the kids next door?_ Questions on the tip of her tongue but she held back, instead letting the thump of the drums and base guitar music from next door steal away her courage.


	6. shut the door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title to this chapter is really representative of where I hope to start moving (read: forward), even despite the way in which the chapter ends. 
> 
> I would like to say thanks to anyone still with me, for your patience. And I would like to say thank you to Spanglecap and Dresupi who have helped me and listened to me angst, been wonderful sounding boards, corrected grammar, and done some wonderful hand holding.

_ "You find joy in the things you do_  
_ Shoe shine boy seldom ever blue _  
_ You're content with what you've got _  
_ So shine, shine, shoe shine boy"_  
_ -[as sung by Bing Crosby, 1936](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u849SgDDT_o) _

_***_

“Christ, you are as slow as molasses today. There’s a washrag over there, if you can hurry up about it.”

When he opened his eyes, he was sure he was dreaming. Clotheslines with someone’s whites- socks, undershirts, a brassiere and other underwear- hung above his head, crisscrossed overhead like Christmas lights for an otherwise dull room of muted browns and yellows…

“Now, young man,” a clear voice called out from somewhere Steve couldn’t see, “I picked up an extra shift from Agnes so I won’t be home but I’ve left some beans out and there’s a can of peaches…”

“Peaches,” Steve mumbled slowly. _Peaches. Taste better when you eat them straight out of the can…Oh honestly, I’ve raised you to be a nice boy. Eating out of the can like a ragamuffin…_ He didn’t know if he’d actually said anything out loud but it felt like a familiar conversation he'd had many times before.

“Yes, peaches. Unless you’re coming down with something…”

Steve wiggled his toes and listened to the voice, calm and controlled but suddenly with a hint of concern. _Not Natalie._ A faceless figures stood in the doorway.

“Are you feeling ill? I…”

 _Fine. Just fine_ , Steve wanted to say, though his tongue felt heavy and weighed down. And even so, if anything, the dream actually felt normal. Like a place where he could say he felt he belonged. Safe and quiet, _this is a good place._

“Just promise me you’ll stay out of trouble today and that you won’t forget to come home…” she called out. Steve closed his eyes and nodded as she, whoever she was, started singing softly. Her voice was like heaven, though he knew on instinct she’d say it was nothing special if he could get his tongue to work enough to tell her. He wished he could listen to her sing forever. Wished he could stamp the notes into his skin because the memory of them made him want to weep. He didn’t want to leave, wanted to stay forever as her voice filled the room and his consciousness.

***

_Don’t forget to come home…_

The second time that he opened his eyes, Steve recognized that he was awake, the smell of her skin and the lotion she’d put on the night before proof of reality. It was dark and he couldn’t see her clearly, but he knew that she was there next to him. Turning onto his back, Steve felt for the ring around his finger and raced to mentally review all he could remember, the memories slipping through his mind and fuzzier as the seconds passed.

It had been a dream, a fact that was damn disappointing because at least that had felt familiar and right. He'd been in a different bed, in a different room. He couldn't remember her face or exactly how she'd sounded, or even what she'd said except that she'd made him supper and told him to come home.

A logical theme, he supposed, considering he didn't remember where "home" was.

It bothered him enough that he got up to go to the kitchen. Their kitchen, which was slowly taking shape, possibly out of Natalie’s…his wife's… stubbornness to make sense of what was missing. They had hand towels now, and simple white and blue dishes. With cups, which was helpful. His throat scratched and he turned on the tap before remembering that their breadmaker had advised against drinking anything not bottled. Too dangerous for the stomach.

She'd seemed so focused on furnishing the kitchen, taking advice from the breadmaker and every sales clerk. It was something they hadn't talked about, at least not explicitly, because it had felt good watching her unload groceries, carefully arranging them in the refrigerator like art.

She'd found something to do, in buying things. An objective. _A distraction._ Something to do with the money they’d had on their person and later stuffed into an envelope at the bottom of his suitcase _, not that they would discuss what happened when that ran out_.

Sitting on the couch with a bottle of water he'd grabbed from the fridge, Steve thought about the dream again. They'd been lost for over a week and he felt like they- _like he_ \- was floundering.

 _You're as slow as molasses_ , she'd said in his dream, whoever she was. It felt true. He felt slow and stuck. Useless, like a fly trapped and unable to move or do anything. He couldn’t even imagine what he was supposed to do, even what he enjoyed doing. It just didn't feel logical that he would have moved to the ends of the earth with his bride only to sit like a bump in a log in his living room.

He finished his drink eyeing their front door. Plain wood that almost glowed like a neon sign to amplify the anxiety he felt pool in his gut. One thing had been consistent since he'd woken up- the clear and overwhelming urge to run, to get out of wherever he ( _they_ ) were. It wasn’t like they were even leaving anything behind, he thought as the rest of his brain caught up and reminded him of the big picture. It wasn't like they had anywhere to go, at least not that he knew of.

Steve shifted his focus to the coffee table where he sat, a piece of paper in the foreground with messy tic-tac-toe tables scribbled all over. Something about the little girl with the big brown eyes had piqued his interest, long enough to take his mind off those damned suitcases and the underlying panic that they might never get them opened. Engaging her in play had felt important, like something he could do because surely she was bored doing deliveries with her mother.

He wished he knew or could remember whether or not he even liked children. _Did he have sisters? Did Natalie? Did he want kids of his own? (Did she?)_ More questions. Just drops in the bucket of many because he could pretend that Stefan and Natalie Roberts had spent hours laying in bed fantasizing about parenthood, but at the end of the day he didn’t really know. All he knew of her was the way that she carefully chose each word, the way she moved around him with suspicion. Even though she’d stocked their refrigerator, he wasn’t quite sure he would identify her as maternal or nurturing. Cold. Observant. Addicting in the way she smiled when something clicked or worked, because those little moments were like little bells ringing in his head. Guarded.

He hadn’t known how to react finding her in their room amidst chaos. Shards of glass and a flipped up mattress, a chunk of hair in her eyes and face flushed. He’d just missed the vulnerability. He could feel it, even as she pulled back, that he’d just missed something honest. A flash of Natalie not pretending to be in control or unmoved and unmovable.

She said she’d been cleaning, a lie he didn’t think even she believed he would buy. He let her have it anyway. Whatever she’d been feeling, the loss of an ugly lamp was better than invading and pushing, as though she owed him transparency. _Owed?_ For the rings on their fingers that neither of them seemed to trust?

_Don’t forget to come home…_

It wasn’t like he was rushing to tell her about a vague dream, wasn’t like he felt it was even right to tell her about the feeling of being lost and scared. She could have her own moments of private panic or sadness or despair, if that’s what she was feeling. Those moments were hers like the dream was his.

If she- _they_ \- had talked about a family before the accident, things were different in the present.

Before and after. He wondered how much before even mattered. Before had she been different, had he?

It didn’t matter. Their rings were just visual reminders (shackles? He turned that word over a few times before dismissing it) that all they had were each other.

_If he’d loved her before, it didn’t matter…_

Picking up the piece of paper and a pencil he figured she'd left behind, Steve drew lazy circles along the border and wondered whether his wife would mind if he went out for a walk or not.

***

She waited until she heard the front door click shut before she opened her eyes. Counting her Mississippis, Natalie waited until she was sure he wasn’t home before sliding out of bed, still holding her breath as she made her way over to their kitchen.

If she had been an observer, she imagined she would have found it all fascinating. For all that she was re-learning and all of the shadowy truths that were on the tip of her tongue, Natalie found herself creating a routine. A new normal.

Standing barefoot at the counter, Natalie started the kettle for hot tea and pulled down the sugar bowl. Steve liked more sugar in his tea than was probably normal whereas she preferred hers black. If recovery included learning what was normal and what felt right, she had the makings of a small list.

_I like black tea, he likes a fuck-ton of sugar._

_He likes to go away when he is bothered by something. I don't_ _feel like I can push him to talk._

_We_ _’_ _re from Indiana. But sometimes he pulls the vowels out of his words like he_ _’_ _s from somewhere else entirely and I catch myself thinking in Russian_ _…_

_Stefan Roberts, not even thirty years old. Quiet, shy, polite, tosses and turns like hell before he finally falls asleep._

_Natalie Roberts, even younger. Isn't afraid to tell people what she thinks they want to hear. Curiously aware. Knows more about the fucking gun underneath her kitchen sink than how to work her kitchen sink._

Natalie stood at the sink and sighed, fingers itching to open the cupboard door for another peek. It itched at her, the cool metal and knowledge that it fit her palm so perfectly. Something that felt normal and right, more so than the metal that hugged her finger like a noose. Standing at the sink, Natalie felt the pressure of anxiety and all that she didn't know build like a volcano and the obvious choice really was to kneel down and scratch the itch.

***

It had been on a whim that he'd bought the flowers. The carnations, ugly and garish, were dyed unnatural shades of blue, green, and fuchsia from a stand that also sold red foiled balloons and small stuffed bears. He'd actually passed the stand and kept walking past the merchant, a girl wearing too-tight jeans and a cigarette dangling from her mouth. Partly because it seemed like everyone around him walked as though they had a clear direction in mind, eyes only moving to steal an occasional glare at the random tall blond American tourist that he figured he projected. In a sea of dark-haired men, women and children who seemed to all know where they were going, Steve's lack of direction felt like a neon sign. The floating conversations, the sounds of traffic and an occasional radio, all in a language he only picked up pieces of and Steve had no illusions about how much he stood out.

He'd stopped after recognizing that he'd made his way back to the hospital. Back to start. On autopilot, he'd crossed the crowds and walked through the town plaza, already set up with various stands and tables for the day, different merchants getting ready to sell everything from popcorn to scarves to tiny grains of rice that a buyer could have his name printed on and have worked into jewelry. Walking, though he wanted to run and would have because his feet were restless to move, except that there were just too many people and the crowds were just too thick.

The town was small enough that he'd made it easily from one end to the other without breaking a sweat. He said a quick thanks to whoever he'd been before for that because whoever he'd been, he'd taken good care of himself. At least as far as endurance and stamina, Steve could say that Stefan Roberts had either been blessed genetically or very dedicated, (he'd been leaning towards the first option due to the lack of gym equipment in the house, though he figured he owed it to his past self to find a way to maintain and appreciate what he had as a sign of gratitude).

He'd stopped at the gate to the hospital, and only because he'd seen an elderly man buying flowers before heading inside. It was such an obvious gesture. People buy flowers when they visit loved ones in the hospital. For people they love and care about

_Don't forget to come home._

What bothered him, what stuck in his head like a song he couldn't forget, was how alone they were. Who had been there when he'd woken up except a doctor and nurses he didn't know? Who'd been there for Natalie? Were they missed? Did they have any connections at all?

He'd gone back to the flower stand with Natalie in mind. None of the options available felt right or appropriate, but he'd picked out a bouquet anyway. Flowers for the woman who he had been told was his wife. His home.

Flowers for Natalie who was just as alone as he.

_If he didn't love her before..._

He handed over a crumpled bill and his best _gracias_ before taking his purchase.

They were stuck. He was stuck. And if he labeled all that he knew into "before" and "now," he decided "before" didn't matter. Or maybe it did but it was so intangible. If he spent all of his energy trying to open the suitcases and force his memory into doing something it wasn't willing to do, he still had a wife to untangle and understand.

_Go home._

The words repeated over and over in his mind and he decided he had no choice but to listen. And so he did, walking and then breaking out into a light jog as he got closer, clutching the flowers in one hand and this time moving with the same purpose and direction as any of the people he passed. For a second, Steve knew where he was going just as much as they did. Home. Whether it fit or was broken or not because the only way to move from the bottom was by going up.

She was standing at the doorway, holding a bag of bread and laughing with arguably their only friend when he arrived. A sight for sore eyes, even in just a sweater and jeans. She looked so normal. Nonchalant even, and he again marveled at how composed she was.

 _No one would have any idea how much we_ _’_ _ve lost,_ he thought as he met her eyes and approached. Her glance followed to the flowers and when she smiled, his resolve got only firmer. How many men would pay millions for a clean slate? At ground zero, with the only option of moving forward, he recognized how foolish he’d be not to at least try to figure things out.

Her smile was so healthy and warm. No one would have any idea how much she didn’t remember. How tentative and fragile everything was, because she smiled so easily and with so much joy. He’d been told in his dream to go home and any druthers about keeping his distance and waiting for their memories to magically reappear were replaced by that smile. In the present tense, she was his home. The yellow house- their yellow house- was his home and he felt all the urgency of forcing it if necessary.

The breadmaker looked over her shoulder and swooned, hand over chest and an “awwww” escaping her lips. Feeling like he’d been caught, cheeks burning, Steve walked up and handed his wife the bushel of carnations.

“ _Buenos d_ _í_ _as,_ _Señora_ ,” he nodded to the breadmaker though not taking his eyes off Natalie who’d lifted the bouquet to her nose, his breath high in his throat in anticipation of her reaction. The other woman chuckled and rattled off a few words that made Natalie laugh in response.

“What? What did she say?” Steve asked, laughing with them even as he recognized they were undoubtedly talking about him.

“That she wishes you’d give her husband some tips,” Natalie answered, holding the flowers tight. “She thinks you’re sweet. I agree.”

Steve gave a quick thanks to the breadmaker before putting his hand on the doorknob, feeling light. Engaging in banter with Natalie at his doorstep. _This makes sense. This feels right._

He listened as Natalie and the taxi driver’s wife said goodbyes and then she was next to him, opening the door alongside him. “Steve, thanks. These are really…”

He heard a snag in her voice and when he looked up, the matching concern in her eyes. Enough that he hesitated only for a quick second, thinking maybe he’d jumped the gun. Even if he wanted to move forward, he still had to recognize her boundaries and limits…

“They’re perfect,” she said quickly, as if she could hear his thoughts, and her face was earnest enough that he believed her. But then he watched as she took in a deep breath. Preparing. Bracing herself.

“Natalie?” he felt his brow crease as he pushed their front door open. She was holding onto something and he thought about how she’d looked just the day before in their bedroom, vulnerable amidst the chaos.

“Yeah, I just have to show you something,” she said slowly, deliberately as they walked inside and into their living room.

He watched as she sat on the sofa, bouquet placed next to her, in front of the silver cases that had been a minor bane of his existence and he actually felt relieved.

“You remember the combination?” That would be great news. Perfect timing because they could uncover any secrets together.

“No,” she shook her head soberly. “Not quite.”

Natalie inhaled again before reaching behind her back and then he was sure no one was breathing. He hadn’t known what to expect but there it was, just as cool as her face when he’d first met her.

Before he said anything at all, she’d winced like she was expecting him to either react in anger or flee and he wanted to crouch down or sit next to her but he couldn’t help that his thoughts were suddenly moving a mile a minute. She’d reached behind her back to pull out a gun that she was still very much gripping, the silver against silver of the cases and her arm tense enough that he didn’t have to wonder whether or not she would aim it directly at him if he made the wrong move.

She’d winced but then she was looking at him with boldness, as if waiting.

“It’s a…”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “And I know how to use it, even if I couldn’t tell you how.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's always Steve who falls first, isn't it?


	7. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a Happy Thanksgiving weekend to all who celebrate :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With special thanks to Spanglecap and Dresupi :)

_Oh, let our love survive_  
_Or dry the tears from your eyes_  
_Let's don't let a good thing die_  
_When honey, you know I've never lied to you…_

 _We can't go on together_  
_With suspicious minds (suspicious minds)_  
_And we can't build our dreams_  
_On suspicious minds_

_-Elvis_

“Lots of people have guns,” he explained, his voice even and calm, rationalizing so obviously. She knew he didn’t believe that they were like “lots of people.”

“Right,” She darted her eyes in his direction. She was still ambivalent about whether or not the decision to share what she’d found was a good one.

The choice to come clean had been a leap of faith. She’d been standing in the kitchen making tea when she’d found her resolve. It had seemed simultaneously obvious and brave, the right decision even if it might not be the best.

 _I don’t know, I don’t know,_ she thought as she considered reasons to stay quiet. It made her feel cowardly, like a frightened animal. And feeling frightened only made her angry, mostly at herself. Whoever she’d been before, “frightened animal” didn’t fit.

It was while steeping teabags that she’d decided that wherever they were, they’d been given the chance at a fresh start. Married and a clean slate.  She thought about the hot water she’d finished boiling. _The hotter the water, the cleaner things were._

The photo, tucked in between pages in his passport, had shown a man who didn’t look like he was in any distress at her side. Glimpses there that mirrored the man she’d seen glimpses of all along and she _wanted_ to be honest.

Showing him the gun had been a trust exercise of sorts with her stomach all in knots as she waited for him to respond. It felt dangerous and exciting, even gratifying. She’d found something. She had _something_ to share. And she really couldn’t have guessed what he would say or do, though a part of her did hope he’d make a connection and be able to explain why they were armed or why she knew what she knew.

He hadn’t reacted with fear, at least not overtly, or anger. Something she noted as curious but also helpful. Hadn’t shown a startle response at all, not even flinching, as if Steve and “frightened animal” didn’t quite match either. But there had been some…disbelief. The slow of his breath and how that somehow matched the way his eyebrows knitted together. He met her eyes but didn’t say anything, which Natalie decided was a good thing because then she’d be forced to give answers that she didn’t have.

Not quite the break she’d hoped for after sharing the clue she’d found. The little things he didn’t say- _I know what this is too. This makes sense to me too._

It had caught her off guard how much she’d wanted him to have answers.

She didn’t tell him that she knew that the gun on the coffee table between them was a Russian service pistol or that its bullets were special, made to pierce armor. It wasn’t like she could say how she remembered that and so she tucked the information away.

They were already pretending, as it was.

Natalie looked over at the bouquet beside her, his own concession for the day, and her fingers traced the petals of one of the aqua-blue carnations.

"I don't think we have a vase for these," she said, suddenly ready to change the subject. It was an ordinary gesture. The kind of thing that husbands did, or at least that hers might do and as big a break as the gun because he was one inch less afraid to play that part. She thought about what wives did when husbands brought home flowers and her own hesitancy to lean over to kiss him, even if on the cheek. Physical contact she was hungry for.

"Where did you find this?" he asked. The gun that she’d placed on the coffee table, far enough that she wasn’t gripping it like a security blanket she didn’t think she needed but close enough that it was still there, just in case.

"Kitchen sink."

He moved to sit next to her, still hesitant but she imagined just a little less so. And she almost forgot why she’d worried so much about saying anything in the first place because suddenly it was a secret that was _theirs_ instead of just hers. "We should keep it there then. Until we can remember how it got there."

 

***

"It's not unusual for the Widow to go off the grid."

Fury didn't even look up from the file he'd been reading when he said it. Cool and casual as if Clint should know better. And then Clint almost wanted to apologize for saying anything at all. _Almost._

"She isn't responding to my messages."

Fury could have said anything. Dismissed Clint the way he himself had dismissed Wilson only a week earlier. Instead he sat back in the leather office chair, arms folded across his chest, and sighed.

"Captain Rogers is with her?"

"Sir. He checked in with Sam Wilson before he left." Clint felt his pulse race, something in Fury's tone telling him that the ball was rolling.

"It's election season."

Clint nodded. Not good timing for Captain America to disappear, not if he’d been booked to show up at any number of events, if only to sign autographs and take pictures at junkets and weigh in with his own opinion about different policies. The kind of thing Clint could bet money Steve actually loathed, even if it was a needed publicity win for SHIELD. The kind of thing that Clint didn't envy one bit. He pictured Steve holding babies, taking selfies with politicians and fangirls, his smile uneasy because he'd never seemed to get the hang of pretending and faking it, of playing along if only for the free booze and a paycheck.

"Have you checked Agent Romanoff's..." Fury started to ask about the different contacts and safe houses and hideaways that anyone would immediately suspect if she was doing anything or going anywhere.

"What I know of," Clint shrugged. "Which is a thumbnail of who _she_ knows. Nat's web is large." He still had a few leads to follow up on, places Natasha didn't know he knew about, mostly contacts and leads that she'd buried even before defection and no one that would make sense. Chaing Mai, a hole in the wall in Tunis, a _favela_ outside Rio. Clint wondered if Fury had any illusions about just how far Natasha’s contacts reached. Did he think that a SHIELD list of Black Widow contacts and safehouses wouldn’t have been doctored and altered by the Black Widow herself?

 _Getting lost. Vanishing into thin air_. If anyone could do it, she could.

Rogers, on the other hand…

 

***

The anticipation of telling Steve about the gun had been worse than the follow through. Something Natasha thought about when she held the gun in her hands and pointed it in the direction of the cases.

It was easier than she thought it would be, pulling the trigger. Sliding her thumb over the safety as she took aim because only gravity and physics stood between her and the contents of the cases. She tried to talk herself out of any false hopes- all of the clues they’d found had been isolated bread crumbs. Little pieces to the larger puzzle of who they were that only made her feel even more lost and hollow.

He’d offered to pull the trigger for her but she’d laughed. It reminded her of the chivalry he’d let sneak through from the start. Because he was afraid handling a gun would offend her sensibilities? She wasn’t sure if it was that or his own sense of how he should act as her husband. Natalie didn’t give him the chance to digest his feelings and expectations, rolling her eyes and gripping the metal even harder.

“I got this,” she huffed, mentally mapping the trajectory and taking aim at the lock to the case immediately in front of her.

The sound of the shot itself echoed in her ears to the point that she wasn’t sure she was even breathing, couldn’t hear anything. All sounds- the sounds of their neighbors or the birds outside, the sound of Steve clearing his throat, her own breath- all faded away for the hammering of the bullet through the lock and a familiar ringing that was almost a comfort.

“Natalie…” she heard him say, a hand moving to the wrist that still held the gun and _that_ made her flinch maybe even more than the recoil.

She hadn’t expected the heat. The way her hands burned. The delicious hum that ran through her fingers and all the way through her shoulders even down to her gut and below. She shivered.

“You okay?” he asked, nudging her wrist to lower the gun. When she found her breath, she looked up and nodded. His eyes were blue. Little bursts of stars. She found she didn’t even care that she was staring or care if he cared because his eyes were the focal points she needed to process the gunshot.

“Open sesame,” she whispered, breaking her gaze to bring them both back to the cases and the secrets inside.

 

***

_The first case had been empty. He’d been flipping it upside down and shaking it as if that might make something magically materialize when she shot the second one open. With the first, he remembered the shock. The way she’d shook, just a little, as if her mind had forgotten the power attached to shooting the gun itself. He’d been ready to tell her to put the gun away, that they could deal with the suitcases another way._

_By the time she’d reached the third case, she was handling the gun as an extension of her own body. Did she even flinch? If anything, her body had moved on momentum. As if, for a split second, looking for a fourth case or anything else to shoot. She’d seemed so brave. Capable. It didn’t seem like such a stretch why his former self would have fallen in love with her._

_The first case had been a disappointment but the second one had given them a little more to go on. Mostly the kind of paperwork someone would take if moving overseas. Certificates of birth and marriage. A set of keys. A typed resume (Natalie’s) and a business card (_ Empresas Roxxon _)._

_“I guess we are married,” he said, holding the proof up to the light of their living room as if that would change anything._

_“Contacts. Help?” she answered, scanning the resume. “I have an MBA. Huh.”_

_The third case was the most immediately gratifying._

_“Cash,” she said quietly and he could hear the “of course” that she didn’t say. Because their lives were already so full of enough mystery and question marks that of course they’d be halfway across the world with a suitcase full of money. US dollars stacked neatly as though they belonged there, forgotten as much as everything else._

_“Is it ours?” he sat back in his seat. If the answer was yes, more questions than he honestly felt like asking. She picked up a stack of bills and thumbed through them._

_“It is today.”_

Steve leaned into the shower tile and sighed.   They’d asked for answers and were a step closer, weren’t they?

He adjusted the dial, thinking he’d want the water hotter until he realized that it was as hot as it would get.

Home. He was home. Even though he couldn’t remember, a piece of paper signed by the governor of Indiana argued otherwise. Stefan and Natalie Roberts were joined in lawful wedlock on the nineteenth day of October, two thousand and thirteen. Joined together with a gun and a briefcase full of cash, and he didn’t even know where to begin with that knowledge.

He’d been weighing the likelihood that they were outlaws who had just robbed a bank when he heard the bathroom door creak open.

“Natalie?” Steve croaked. The bathroom was thick with steam courtesy of his unconscious decision to use all of the hot water and when he moved the shower curtain just enough to make sure his wife was the intruder, he hoped she wouldn’t catch the flush in his face.

She stood, back against the door, mouth parted like she wanted to say something. As though she’d been working through the contents as much as he. He noted that she was holding her gun hand, thumb on palm as if still reeling from the kick.

“Natalie, you ok?”

She didn’t answer at first and that was all the inspiration he needed to reach for the shower dial. A clear cue that he should get out so that he could sit with her and give her whatever space she needed to process.

“Don’t get out,” she ordered. Steve frowned but followed, opening his mouth to ask if she needed something when he realized she was climbing in behind him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Couldn’t find the words, even as he’d shut his eyes and moved to face the shower head because even though the state of Indiana thought they were married, something about seeing her naked in the shower or her seeing him felt embarrassing and scary.

“Natalie…” _Natalie, what are you doing?_ A question he didn’t want to ask out loud but maybe she might hear.

“Steve,” she said calmly and then he could feel a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not naked. You can look.”

“But I am,” he protested, suddenly very much aware of his body. They’d been married for over a year, at least allegedly and he was frustrated that of all the things his body had forgotten, being with her was one of them. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. Nudity and hot water and steam. Completely normal parts of life, just as ordinary as the ache between his legs and the way his throat closed up because she was so close.

“Look.”

It was for the small pleading in her voice that he obliged. Turning around and opening his eyes so that he could see her, half dry and half wet because she hadn’t even come all the way in. She wasn’t naked, she’d told the truth, the water streaking her mismatched underwear in obscene and painful ways. And then he was only hoping she wouldn’t pay attention to the fact that he was using his hands to cover his genitals, or at least that she wouldn’t be hurt.

“It’s just,” she rubbed her hand. “Well… if you _are_ my husband…”

“Your hand,” he tilted his chin, _almost_ forgetting the situation to reach out to see if she’d let him look at it.

Her eyebrows knit together in frustration and she took a step closer in the already claustrophobic space. She looked so vulnerable in that moment, frustrated, like she couldn’t find the words to tell him what she wanted or was looking for. His heart pounded at the sight because even if she couldn’t say, he thought he had a pretty clear idea.

 _Home. Wife. Mine_. His brain tossed the single-syllable words his way and he thought about all the ways he might have failed to protect her up to that point. Holding back a sigh because standing in the shower naked with her wasn’t a chore, Steve moved his hands so that he could open his arms in invitation.

He couldn’t miss the relief on her face, matching his own when she collapsed into him, her arms lacing around his middle tight enough that he might stop breathing if his breath hadn’t already been stuck in his throat. Reaching up to pat her hair, he urged the lower half of his body into ignore because that would have been too much.

“Who are we?” She whispered, almost frantically, resting her forehead on his chest and he thought maybe she could hear his heart breaking because she shivered.

“I guess we have to figure it out piece by piece,” he answered, brushing his lips into her hairline. “Maybe start by getting out of the shower though.”

“Hot water’s all gone,” she conceded, fingertips tickling his spine.

"Come to dinner with me?" he asked, figuring he should at least offer her dinner with all of the thoughts racing through his head.  It felt a little absurd, asking to date his own wife but she laughed into his skin and said she'd be delighted. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  God Bless tumblr.


	8. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"In memoria eterna erit justus"_  
>  *author flips tables*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here :) 
> 
> with thanks to spanglecap and dresupi for feel-checking and late-night chatting. Song for this chapter just might be the song for this fic.

_So cold is the wind, it blows your hair_  
_So warm is your touch upon my skin_  
_How tired am I of being scared_  
_But how awake am I now that I know you're here_  
  
_ 'Cause I'd rather fight with you than laugh with another_  
_ I'd rather freeze in your arms than be warm under covers_  
_ And I'd let you hit me before I ever let you hit the floor_  
  
_ And I'd rather choke than to breathe in your absence_  
_I'd rather feel your wrath than feel another's passion_  
_And I'd rather die on the day that I give you a kiss_  
_ Than spend the rest of my life knowing I never did_  
  
_So just hold me and tell me that I'm everything you need;_  
_ Tell me that, that lonely little heart of yours that I've been dying for ain't out of reach_

-Front Porch Step, _"Private Fears in Public Places"_

She stood in front of the bathroom mirror and ran her fingers through the dark red roots that had started poking through at the place where her hair parted. A half-inch that bled into the blonde and she was still undecided about whether or not she wanted to go to the pharmacy to buy a new box. She was reluctant, because it was her hair. Because she was quite honestly through trying to imagine what the old version of her was like, what that version of Natalie would have wanted. Because she couldn’t stop thinking about the red-headed version in Steve’s picture. It was a true version, or at least the truest version of herself that she had.

It was like trying to guess someone’s last wishes, except that she really didn’t know the person who’d died. Did pre-amnesia Natalie have an important reason for dying her hair? Or had she just woken up one morning with the desire to look different, to feel reinvented?

She told herself that her reluctance to die her hair had nothing to do with the way picture-Steve had looked at her.

“It doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?” she sang lightly to herself, straightening her sweater. A dark grey cable-knit sweater that she loved because she could pull it down over her knees like a blanket when she curled up on their couch to read. She also loved it because it was one of the first things she’d purchased since their accident, one of the first things that she could say was hers and not something she shared with the ghost of whoever she used to be.

When she wore it with the black leggings she’d found in her past-self’s bag, next to a pair of well-worn gym shoes that she couldn’t remember using, her husband groaned. He pretended not to look, when she moved around him in an oversized sweater and pants that did magical things to her ass. He pretended to draw or tie his shoes or stir the spaghetti sauce she’d started simmering on the stove.

It was the way he pretended not to look that convinced her.

He moved around her as though there were a million little rules and reasons to be careful. As though she was breakable. As though he himself wasn’t quite sure, not even of his own lines and boundaries. She reminded herself that he, in all fairness, probably _wasn’t_ sure.

When he looked and then looked away, she wondered how they’d existed before. She could establish attraction. She’d seen him naked, seen all of the smooth skin and muscle that was normally hidden under clothes. Clearly, she’d decided of her pre-amnesia self, Natalie Roberts hadn’t been stupid. Could she imagine having sex with this man? Making love, being intimate, fucking?

There were times when she thought she could. Laying beside him in bed at night and not quite touching. This had become her greatest downfall. She thought about the body heat that poured from his body to hers and just how big he was, big enough to shield her and make her feel small. It stirred something, on a visceral level, and suddenly she had no problems at all imagining them as overheated newlyweds who didn’t have proper furniture because they were too busy doing what newlyweds do. Holding her breath and shifting, doing her damndest not to squeeze her thighs together, Natalie wondered if they would ever return to the place of closeness she hoped they’d come from. She also considered whether or not it would be a good idea to force it, to pull him over for a kiss and maybe more. _A serious effort to jog memories,_ she rationalized before dismissing the idea entirely.

Because there were other times when she hated him and the situation that they were in. Why couldn’t they remember? What had they done to be stuck? What had she done? In those moments, even hearing him breathe or shuffle around their house made her blood boil. Whoever they were, they were dangerous. They both knew it, even if they’d wordlessly agreed not to discuss it, and for all of that danger, he was so careful. So slow. Flowers and meek smiles when she came into the room were one thing and she knew that he’d thought about that part of their marriage before, knew that he wanted her.

The rings on their fingers said that he’d had her. That at one time, they’d known each other. She wished she had anything to go on. A wedding night. Their first time. The best times and the awkward times. When she closed her eyes and tried, she still came up blank.

If they had nothing, nothing kept either of them there. But she didn’t think about that.

Straightening her sweater, Natalie pushed the bathroom door open and made her way back to the small table where Steve was still nursing the beer he’d been struggling with for over an hour. It was only the second time they’d made their way to the small hole-in-the-wall bar near the center of town. Small-town-middle-of-nowhere-Chile didn't offer a wide selection of things to do. A small shopping center. A handful of eateries, including a place advertising Peruvian-Chilean fusion and one that sold hot dogs. For whatever reason, the Roberts' hadn't picked their home or their new life based on location.

“Who’s playing today?” she asked, nodding to the small television set rigged to the back wall. The one town bar apparently doubled as a gathering place for men whose wives refused to let them watch soccer games at home. A small gaggle of men, some balding and others with different-sized paunches to show the wear of their lives, sat a few tables away and jeered at the game. Natalie found herself sizing the room up unconsciously. Who was drunk, who looked agitated and angry that his team was losing. And at present, everyone seemed more or less appeased, from sports fan to bartender.

And Steve. He’d been lost in thought, attention focused on the blue-and-yellow label of his bottle until she spoke. And then he was out of his chair to pull hers out. A glimpse into who he might be and Natalie was charmed.

“I have no idea,” he shrugged. “I don’t think I know much about this game. Do you? Do you remember soccer?”

Natalie was about to comment that it was actually called _fútbol_ , but the crowd of men had started shouting, interrupting her train of thought. She looked over her shoulder and counted the empty glasses of beer on the table, a burst of fire in her stomach spreading across her body. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught herself being hypervigilant, a small clue to something she was sure.

“I think they’ve just had a homerun. Or touchdown,” Steve said, eyes focused on her. It reminded her of their purpose in going to the bar at all. _Dating. Getting to know each other as much as we can because we are all we have for certain_. The corners of his mouth turned up telling her that he knew enough that the game was measured in goals and she laughed.

“Yeah, well. Three of those guys have had their weight in Cristal. It will be quite a show if they win.”

He looked at his own glass of the local pilsner doubtfully. “I don’t know why. I feel like I should have ordered what you’re drinking.”

She shrugged over her empty shot glass. Vodka that she’d ordered without thinking while he studied the laminated drink list.

_“Nasdarovyeh,” she’d said under her breath before swallowing the shot, before he’d even started his beer._

_“Where do you think you learned that?” he asked. He’d seemed amused._

_Not that she had a clear answer. She spoke Russian. It was just one of those things. One of many weird glitches that she tried not to overthink because the truth that scratched under the surface frightened her. She’d decided to accept it because the alternative was searching for reasons in family and childhood she couldn’t remember._

A decent evening. They’d had a nice enough time at their small town’s best effort of a bar, even if drinking itself had been unfulfilling, (she’d need more than a shot and so would he based on his apparent lack of interest in his beer). He got up to pay and Natalie sighed. She still couldn’t say for sure what she felt or knew but it was a start.

" _Hola, mijita rica_ ," a man slurred and she stiffened. It didn’t take a lot of hard thinking to figure out that he was talking to her. And there it was, her signal that this portion of their night was over. Looking over her shoulder, Natalie surveyed her admirer. A middle-aged man wearing coveralls and a blue ROXXON hat. He smiled, all yellow teeth and stubble and she turned back to their table.

Mr. ROXXON hat persisted, wanted to know if she’d like another drink and a few other things that came out less coherently. Natalie craned her neck to see if she could catch her husband’s eye, doing her best not to react because when she assessed the threat level, he came off fairly innocuous. Almost cute, in _like- I’m-even-remotely-interested-especially-now-oh-that’s-cute-that-you-think-I_ _’_ _d-even_ way.

Someone at the table behind her slammed a fist on the table and she jumped, noting that the home team was definitely not winning.

Her wishful suitor pulled Steve’s chair out so that he could sit down and say the Spanish equivalent of “ _come on, Preciosa, you look thirsty."_ She visualized grabbing him by the collar so that she could break the bottle Steve had neglected over his head when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

 _It_ _’_ _d be so fast. And we_ _’_ _d be out before anyone would even notice to say something._ She gave the man next to her a smile. A nice consolation prize for breaking his nose.

“Is everything alright?” Steve asked evenly. He looked tense, wearing the hardened straight face she’d seen in the beginning. His hand gripped her shoulder and he squeezed, eyes focused on the man sitting in his chair.

 _Dominance._ He was asserting his dominance, wasn’t he? She thought she might see one or both men actually bearing teeth and she rolled her eyes. Yes, she was his. At least in the sense that they were married but suddenly it just seemed ridiculous. They were only barely anything at all. She couldn’t say even _what_ they were and he was acting _possessive_.

“Fine,” she answered because it _was_. She hadn’t given Mr. ROXXON hat even one word or anything to acknowledge him. And he took one look at Steve and clicked his tongue before one of his buddies was by his side and pulling him away.

“ _Disculpa_ ,” the drunk’s friend said apologetically, _to_ _Steve_ as much as to her and something about the entire scene left her with her breath in her throat. Steve had come to her defense as he saw it, and she knew she would have been fine without it.

“Are you alright?” he asked, moving his hand down to her elbow as she stood and they started toward the door. She looked over her shoulder at the men and swallowed, as if that would do anything to help dissolve the anger coursing through her veins. She was alright, except that something about the entire scene made her feel irrational.

“Fine,” she repeated for the second time, knowing her voice was clipped and that she was doing a shitty job of communicating. “Now what?”

“Are you sure?”

“Fine, Steve,” she repeated, making her way across the street. The center of town was crowded. Street vendors and performers and families and what seemed like every stray dog in town. She felt claustrophobic.

“Natalie, what happened? Did that guy say something?” he asked and she realized she’d moved away, was walking in front of him.

“Nothing.”

“Something, because I’ve never seen you so…”

“So what?” she spun around, taking a step back toward the steps of the nearest building, a brown-bricked cathedral that looked as though it had been around for well over a century. “How have you seen me? Do you remember, Steve? Because we’ve only known each other, what a month?”

“Hey,” he reached for her elbow again. “Natalie, what happened?”

She glared at him and huffed, trying to gauge why she’d gotten so upset. “I could have handled that situation,” she asserted, yanking her arm away. That wasn’t it though.

He nodded like he’d had no doubts and she bit the inside of her cheek. They stood near the door to the church as if in stalemate and she steadied her breath.

“Natalie, I’m flying blind here,” Steve said after a minute. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

***

_"There is a silver lining to all this," Steve gave her a small smile and reached out his hand._

_The idea of a silver lining made Natalie want to laugh but she bit her lip and held back, taking her husband's hand instead as he led her up the mountain trail. He’d given it to her so she wouldn’t fall, which was ridiculous. But it was also nice. He had a nice grip._

_It was her idea, taking the hike. She'd been studying the statue any chance she could, whenever she left their home to explore. A white Virgin Mary, she was sure, but when he asked her what she wanted to do for the day, she decided she'd like a closer look._

_She took his hand as the trail got steeper, and thought about picking a handful of wildflowers on their way back down, though she worried the small yellow and white blossoms wouldn't survive the trip._

_The statue looked taller, up close. Mary all in white and surrounded by her own powder blue picket fence, a small bench for visitors to kneel at before coming to visit. Mary built into a mix of mountain cliff and concrete, the trail to her feet well-worn._

"In memoria eterna erit justus,” _she stopped at the fence and read the plaque at the virgin’s feet._

_"Do you speak Latin too?" Steve asked, a hand over his eyes to shield the sun. He didn't try to hide the smile or the sass underneath it and she found herself smiling back, her heart jumping at the question because she thought she actually did know._

_“Did we get married in a church?” she asked, deflecting, her eyes studying instead the locks to the box holding the church donations. She knew how to pick those, but she didn't_ _know how she knew._

_He stepped beside her._ _“_ W _here else would we go? You look like a good church girl. I wouldn'_ _t want to marry you anywhere else._ _”_

_She laughed at the possibility that she might have been that person._

_And then she felt his hand cover hers._

_“You were a beautiful bride,_ _"_ _he said with enough confidence that she looked over, double-checking his eyes to make sure he wasn_ _’_ t _hiding something._ _“_ _I don_ 't _have to remember to know that it_ ' _s true._ _”_

 _Her cheeks burned and she let herself squeeze his fingers._ _“_ _What's the silver lining?_ _”_

_“If we can't remember anything, this can't be the worse date you've ever been on."_

_And Natalie wanted to kiss him then. Even if it was against his rules or the boundaries they wouldn_ ' _t talk about. She craved him. Maybe because he was all she knew but she didn't know if she cared anymore. Every time he'd held her or touched her, she felt pacified and even if they were belly-crawling to rebuild a foundation, she decided that maybe she could envision all of it._

 _“_ _We should head down before it gets dark,_ _"_ _he said and she pulled back._

 _Hugging her arms over her chest, she nodded her head toward the statue and smiled._ _“T_ _he Latin. It means_ _“h_ _e will be remembered forever'."_

_***_

She closed her eyes, fists in balls that she half wanted to strike him with.

“Aren’t you ready to move on?” she asked, knowing he could hear the anger in her voice. The _frustration_.

“Move on?” he repeated and the way his forehead creased told her she’d have to backtrack. How many meanings of _move on_ were there? Not _that_ kind of _move on_ , she groaned.

“Out of limbo. Out of stasis,” she explained. “Aren’t you tired of moving around me like I’ll break? Did we walk around on eggshells like this before?”

He shrugged.

“Because I don’t think I can do this anymore, not like this.”

And she thought maybe she sounded hysterical but she didn’t know how else she’d breathe, not if she continued keeping her thoughts to herself.

“We are married, Steve. We _are_. It doesn’t fit or feel right but we are.”

“I know…” he nodded, hands on hips and beseeching, as though she’d finally hit the nail on the head and he wasn’t quite sure what to say.

“You know, I know. The _asshole at the bar_ knew.”

“Natalie, I know,” he took a step close and she thought maybe she could see the same feelings mirrored in his face. “I’m not the enemy here.”

“Then who _is_ ,” she gritted her teeth and looked around, double checking on instinct that no one was listening, not even the old lady who’d just arrived on the cathedral steps in a prayer shawl. Something that burned at her insides. _Where had she even gotten that instinct?_

“I don’t know,” he repeated those three words for the millionth time but this time grabbing her elbow again. “But I’m not.”

“Then stop acting like I’m on fire,” she hissed. “Stop treating me like I’m going to leave. Where would I even go? You are all I have, Steve.”

He pulled her inside, toward the first dark corner he could find. “I’m doing my best, Natalie. I’m trying to be fair,” he whispered.

“Fair,” she pushed. “We are a long way from _fair._ I can’t remember anything. I can’t remember my life. I can’t remember you at all.”

Someone behind them coughed and he looked over his shoulder before taking her face in his hands. And before she could even breathe, his lips were on hers. A last-ditch effort, she was sure, to get her to stop panicking. It worked. They’d kissed before. She knew they had because her lips knew when to part, knew that he’d feel and taste so right, just in the same way that she knew without thinking that he’d wrap his arms around her and she could relax and _breathe_ into him if she wanted to.

And yet, it was the first time all over again and she clutched his collar tight.

“Forty-two days,” he said after he’d pulled back, eyes hooded. “It’s been more than a month now.”

“And it took you that long to kiss me? Now? In a church of all places?” She touched her lips, teasing him. “I’m a good church girl, remember?”

He grinned. “Yes, but you _are my wife,_ Mrs. Roberts.”

Natalie caught a glimpse of the old lady that had walked by earlier, casting furtive and disapproving glances their way. Taking his hand, she nodded for the street.

Steve reached tentatively for a piece of her hair. He looked braver then. Less scared of hurting her or some other unwritten violation. Exhaling when he held the wisp in his fingers as though he’d been waiting for permission and she had to laugh. It was probably perfect to be caught kissing her husband in a church of all places. A place that demanded honesty.

It was time to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know, since they don't have the "you may kiss the bride" moment *ugly sobbing*


	9. pick up sticks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concept: Steve Rogers at a punk rock concert.  
> Concept: A innocent Chilean youth calling Steve Rogers "dude" or "boy" or what have you. 
> 
> (not that these things happen in this chapter but giggle with me).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to spanglecap and dresupi for reviewing most of this and apologies in advance to spanglecap, because I took a diversion from our discussed flight plan. To be resolved in the next chapter. And thanks also to Sunnie91, for verifying Spanish.

_“Wise men say_  
_ Only fools rush in _  
_ But I can't help falling in love with you_  
_ Shall I stay_  
_ Would it be a sin_  
_ If I can't help falling in love with you_  
  
_ Like a river flows_  
_ Surely to the sea_  
_ Darling so it goes_  
_ Some things are meant to be_  
_ Take my hand,_  
_ Take my whole life too_  
_ For I can't help falling in love with you”_

_ -Elvis _

“Maybe they don’t want to be found.”

Clint grunted, raising an eyebrow before resuming the task at hand. Specifically the task of reciting the alphabet with his tongue in between his ex-wife’s thighs. He was at _j_ when she’d interrupted his concentration. Some quick suction work brought her predictably back to the present tense ( _God_ , he was so thankful for Barbara Morse’s consistently oversensitive clit), and squirming against his face. Perfect. _He really didn’t want to be thinking about work or Natasha and Steve. He really deserved a few minutes off._

“I mean, if I was dating Captain America, it would be real tempting to run away. Get to know that ass real well…”

“Jesus, Bobbi,” he sighed, pushing her duvet over his head. He hated that duvet. She’d had it since college and just the smell triggered all the many fucks and fights they’d had on it. “I mean, _Jesus_.”

She gave him a look of mock-sympathy, manicured hand placed on his shoulder. The look she gave when he said he’d take out the trash later or when he said he’d go to couples therapy if that would make her stay. “It’s a great ass, Clint.”

“Can we not talk about Rogers’ ass while I’m…” He tried to hold back his exasperation, knowing full well it would only wind her up further. Shifting between her legs, he thought mournfully about his own need, calculating what he’d have to do to get her to refocus and the likelihood that anything would happen at all.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, sincerity unclear. “I just can’t stop thinking about Nat. Has she ever been gone this long?”

Clint buried his face in her stomach. He was tired. Bone-tired after the flight from Sao Paolo. Just a quick trip to meet an old contact, someone _he himself_   had introduced to Natasha, and all he’d gotten out of it was some damn good cachaça. Another dead end and he was starting to run out of ideas.

“Look, we can talk about this later,” he kissed near her navel. “I’ll make you a caipirinha. You like those. Remember Porto Alegre?” God, he’d been a lot younger then. And she’d been charmed, because Clint was good at that. It was a fatal flaw.

“You can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found,” she said. “Did you pick up anything in Brazil?”

He rolled over her leg and onto his back, sighing. “Just because she’s not in Brazil doesn’t mean they were dating, Bobbi. This isn’t TV…”

“Wow, you could give me some credit, Clint,” she narrowed her eyes, letting the “t” in his name hit her teeth sharply. “I know it’s not TV. You don’t have to be such an asshole, you know…”

“Me? An asshole? Bobbi, just a minute. Not five seconds ago, I was up to my eyelashes in your cunt. Can a man eat out his ex-wife in peace? That’s all I want. It’s been a long fucking weekend, you know.”

Fighting with Bobbi had always felt like barrel racing off a cliff. He watched as her face changed, lips pursed tight. It was actually impressive watching her transform from blonde angel to a literal vampire that he was certain guarded the gates of hell on her nights off. She’d never be able to hide her emotions, not from him, the good ones or the bad ones.

So much for getting any relief. He sent his dick thoughts of commiseration, not for the first time.

“All I was saying,” she said as she scrambled out of her bed and pulled her jeans back on. “All I was suggesting, not that I want to hurt your fragile fucking ego, is that maybe they left on purpose. Together, Clint. Or do you think that all of your exes only want to fuck you.”

“So you do want to fuck then?” he asked before ducking to avoid one of her heels.

Clint thought of the most passive aggressive and manipulative ways that he could get out of the fight, and then he thought logically about her theory. He hadn’t seen them together, not that he didn’t think they’d be good at hiding it. For a little while, at least. But Cap wasn’t Natasha’s type. He was too…

_Naïve._

_Anal retentive._

_Sentimental._

_Honest._

He pulled his pants back on and took a deep breath. “They aren’t together, Bobbi. Nat isn’t… she’d eat him alive.”

“Whatever, Clint,” she shrugged and walked into her kitchen. He heard the slam of the fridge door and reasoned that they’d at least entered the part of the fight when she turned into an ice queen.

***

It took only minutes to get home, the town being so damned small, not that Steve was complaining. He thought it was something that was slowly driving his wife up the wall, for reasons that began with inept doctors and therefore information about their health and ended with the fact that there wasn’t a whole lot to do. Natalie reclined into him on the way home, the fingers of one of her small hands playing with his as though she was trying to tell him something in a sign language he didn’t know, and those few minutes were just enough time for him to breathe into her hair and think about the state of things.

She still smelled like the bar, just slightly, enough that it triggered the memory of his wife sitting at the table with some random local who seemed to have a vested interest in making sure she was having a good time. And something about that was jarring.

It was stupid.

Steve was aware that it was stupid, the way he’d stepped up behind her ready to sock the guy in the nose. It had been largely instinctual, not because she seemed overly distressed but someone had to step in and put the guy in his place, he was so clearly out of line.

He was protecting her, he told himself. The other guy had been drunk and persistent, probably feeding off the excitement of the game. Even if Natalie wasn’t beautiful, she would have been an easy target just because of her gender and the fact that he’d left her alone even for a second.

The fact that she _was_ beautiful, that she looked like a model ( _and maybe she was, how the hell did he know?_ ), didn’t help.   He watched her, when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, studied the way she moved, the way she’d always fit in with her environment. So composed and in control, even though he knew the opposite to be true only because he’d seen her break down with his own two eyes. And she was _graceful_. Steve would catch her walking, almost on the balls of her feet, her body so small and light that he was reminded of a cat.

It wasn’t that he was threatened or jealous. She’d hardly seemed interested in the guy who’d stolen his chair.

It wasn’t as though she wasn’t enjoying herself with him, as though she was emitting signals that she needed some guy at a bar to rescue her from her husband. Was that why he’d kissed her? An unconscious need to mark his territory? It felt more desperate than that. Less about machismo, or so he told himself, and more about an irrational need to pull her close because she was one thing that he knew was _his_ and he’d fight anyone who hurt her.

_You are not enough._

Words that he could hear so clearly, almost like a recording, and his heart sped up at the thought that maybe he’d remembered something. Something said to him by someone or something he’d said, his arm pulling her in tight in response.

Natalie looked up, eyes wide with concern and he thought, _there. We must be married if she can read me so well._ He weighed whether or not he could kiss her again, whether or not she’d let him, because kissing her had felt like the first normal and right and safe thing he could remember. He glanced at the driver’s rearview mirror to double-check that they weren’t being watched and then hedged his bets by kissing the top of her head instead. A kiss on the head. That was safe. _Husbandly_.

“Hey,” she whispered in response, as though trying to get his attention. She looked frustrated again and he wondered if maybe she’d read his mind, that maybe he really wasn’t enough, hadn’t done enough… Except that she'd reached up with her ringed hand to touch his cheek, was crooking her chin up to signal that he could kiss her like he wanted to and she wouldn't put up a fight.

 _Like he wanted to_. What he _wanted_ , after living in her space and re-learning who she was, was to kiss her hard, kiss her mouth and her neck and even the pretty little hand wearing his ring, and then kiss her all over. Living with her was like a dull ache. He ached. He ached when he woke up before her and watched her snore lightly into the pillow. He ached when he went to the bathroom and saw her bottles of lavender-scented shampoo and conditioner or the pink razor that sat next to his. When she bit her thumb while she read or the way she consulted with the taxi driver’s wife or the way she studied the documents they'd found for clues. He had to take deep breaths because he hurt to touch her.

He'd held back and he knew she was frustrated by that, she'd said as much only minutes earlier. And it wasn't because he was afraid of taking advantage or hurting her, exactly. At least not entirely, because they were strangers but Natalie was his wife. It was there in their paperwork, in black and white and blessed by the governor of Illinois. He had every right, a thought he'd hushed while relieving the pressure and desire and want in his own quiet time in the shower or their bedroom while she was away, his eyes straying guiltily to her bottles or the bra she'd hung in their bedroom, her smell heavy in the air. He tried not to imagine her in wet underwear that clung to her body, to the sight of her breasts as she breathed or the way her panties had seemed so flimsy, the way they'd exposed tight muscle and mysterious scars and places begging to be touched.

She was his wife. They were together and had time. And he wanted it to be right. Not because they were stranded on a metaphorical island with only each other.

Natalie pulled on his nape, eyes wide and he felt that familiar ache. But kissing her was a relief, her lips a balm to at least dull all of the uncertainty and hesitation. She gasped into his mouth as he leaned into her and for a second, it all felt okay. More than okay. Kissing in churches and taxicabs was just something they did, apparently.

When the driver stopped the car and cleared his throat, the cue that they were home, Steve snapped back and pressed himself against the door. Glancing her way as he pulled the cab fare from his wallet, he noted the flush in her face, the half-smile.

 _Stefan, you are a lucky man,_ he told himself with a sigh, before pushing the cab door open and reaching out for her hand.

She laced her arm through his as they walked to their doorstep, stopping him when he pulled out the key so that she could stand on her toes to kiss him again.

“You’re good at this,” he said, hands cautiously at her waist. It made him nervous, how good she was, the brush of her tongue sending that ache straight down. He wondered if he’d been as nervous before, if amnesia caused personality changes.

“Some things aren’t forgotten, I guess,” she smiled, fingers dancing along the zipper to his jacket. A small touch but he craved more, wanted more. Key in the door, he stopped at the sound of a car engine and low techno beats.

“Neighbors,” Natalie smiled.

Who, as it turned out, were trying to load a new mattress into their home.

Steve looked over at Natalie, who had one eyebrow raised at the sight of their neighbors pulling a mattress off an old, red truck. Or rather, the boy pulling the mattress off with a look of determination while the girl stood next to him, hands on hips. He’d had small resentment toward them for blasting music late at night, for pounding against the shared wall and making sounds that made him want to curl into himself out of his own frustration. And he didn’t think Natalie would blame him if they went inside and practiced kissing a little more, he’d heard her whimper a few times during the late night rock-and-roll sex show.

The inevitable crash of the mattress onto the asphalt below was enough that Steve was nodding his head, signaling to his wife that someone needed to help.

The boy grunted in gratitude when Steve slid to the side of the mattress, helping him guide it out. It was bulky and awkward and he thought about telling the kid to sit out, it would have been faster for him to hoist it over his head by himself. Except that he didn’t want to steal his neighbor’s bravado, what with his girlfriend watching his every move. The boy, who was drowning in the black Ramones t-shirt that hung off his body, had more to lose by Steve showing off than Steve had to gain.

Using the little Spanish he’d picked up from Natalie and then the directions he gleaned from his neighbor, he helped his neighbor move their new bed inside. He hadn’t even broken a sweat, not that he was going to tell his red-faced and dry-heaving neighbor.

“ _Gracias_ ,” the kid nodded as he gulped water from the glass his girlfriend had just handed him.

Steve held his hand out for a quick shake, his eyes on Natalie, standing in the doorway with arms folded across her chest and a smile. His limited Spanish was only the smallest reason that he didn’t want to stick around for small talk, his mouth still feeling the memory of her.

“It was no problem,” he said in English. “Just… it would be nice if you would turn the music down a little after a certain hour.”

“Music?” his neighbor repeated before saying something to his girlfriend in rapid Spanish. Steve heard Natalie laugh and looked over.

“He’s in a band. He thinks you like his music,” she explained before their neighbor interrupted. Still red-faced but suddenly excited, he’d pulled out his cellphone and was typing frantically.

“I don’t hate it…” Steve said slowly, wanting to make sure he’d done his part to prevent any further miscommunications.

Except that the contrary had happened. Instead of quickly leaving with his wife in order to continue what they’d started, he found himself in the middle of a conversation largely translated by Natalie that started with whether or not he and Natalie wanted tickets to see their neighbor’s band and ended with dodging any questions about whether or not they had Facebook. When Steve opened his mouth to say that he didn’t know, his wife had already started talking. Whatever she’d said, the girlfriend disappeared into the bedroom only to return with a computer in hand.

“I told her that I couldn’t remember my login information,” Natalie shrugged as the girl sat next to her, opening her laptop, a big oval ROXXON sticker stuck to the lid.

“They’re a big deal,” Steve pointed to the sticker. Natalie’s translation earned him a shrug from the neighbors. The girlfriend, apparently, worked there in accounting.

“Oil, gas. Half of the town works there and the other half works in the mines,” Natalie said. “So, I guess that’s why it sounds familiar.”

“At least something does,” Steve said, wondering why they were still there. _We have time, no rush_.

Their neighbor pulled up something on the screen before handing the computer to Natalie. He watched her stare at it, face blank for a split-second, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. And then she started typing, fingers clicking with the keys and an occasional little hums that sounded like confusion and surprise.

“We don’t have Facebook,” she announced in English before shutting the laptop.

“So?” Steve asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure he understood why Facebook was important, exactly. If the neighbors wanted them to go to see a band play at the park, they could just tell them in person.

“I don’t know. When I searched, I didn’t find either of us…” Natalie’s voice trailed as her face scrunched up in thought. "It's probably nothing."

" _Entonces, vienen, chicos?_ " the neighbor smiled, glancing up from his phone.

"Natalie, we're busy, aren't we?" he started. Even though he'd sent quick telepathic messages telling his wife he'd rather watch paint dry, she interrupted his excuses with a smile and a nod that of course they would go, thank you so much for the invitation, can't wait.

"It will be fun," she said as she patted his shoulder on the short walk back to their side. "Getting out can only help us..."

"Remember," he finished her sentence as he pushed open their front door. Natalie nodded in agreement as she stepped inside, kicking off her flats as soon as she entered. He watched from their entryway as she tugged at her ears, pulling off a pair of hoops she’d only purchased the day before and placing them on the countertop in their kitchen.

His wife was fantastic at leaving little traces of herself throughout their home to slowly drive him insane. The dull ache that had been soothed by some kisses in the cab crept up and he tried his best to be nonchalant, to not look at her because then she’d see the want all over his face. Taking a deep breath, he took his own shoes off and followed her into the kitchen to look for something to eat.

“You are always hungry,” she mused as he pulled out a package of cheese. “We could feed a village with all that you eat.”

He grimaced but she laughed and pulled a piece from the pile he’d been slicing, and then he had to look down because her mouth was twisted into the kind of teasing smile that made him think only of lifting her up and carrying her into the bedroom so that they could continue working on their memories.

“So, you think I’m a good kisser?”

“Yeah,” he answered, reaching for a roll from the bread bag, his voice low. Not that he could remember a comparison. Not that he needed one.

“I think about that a lot,” she continued, biting her bottom lip when he looked over his shoulder at her. “How we were before. You weren’t so bad yourself. So we’ve nailed that down.”

“Well, we’re married. I’d hope so.”

Natalie laughed and he felt his face grow hot. “Me too. Makes me excited to think about what else you and I are good at. What else maybe we’ve nailed down.”

Steve didn’t answer, looking to her for further instruction or an invitation, even though he knew damn well what she was referring to.

“You know what’s funny? Where are the condoms, Steve?” she tipped her head to the side, taking a step backwards toward the living room.

“Condoms,” he repeated. She was looking for condoms? He felt dizzy at the thought, everything suddenly feeling too fast _. We have time, we can slow down,_ he thought before cringing at his own hesitance. “We’re married, do we need those?”

“Not if I was on the pill,” she shrugged.

“What pill?” He felt stupid, as though she was two steps ahead.

“Or a diaphragm or something. Anything,” she said. He caught a slip of nerves in her voice, realized it was something she’d been thinking about for a while. “Birth control, Steve.”

He wondered if that was why she’d been frustrated, if that was one of the underlying reasons she’d been so angry at him in the bar. He didn’t want to say he didn’t understand, except that the leap from one part of the conversation to what it all meant for him or for them was hard. “Natalie, I… we haven’t been…”

“Fucking. Right. It’s hard to do that when I barely know my own name let alone anything about my husband,” she said, more to herself than to him. “Except. If we are going to be honest, for the sake of us really trying to figure this out, why wouldn’t I at least be on the pill? I mean, unless we were trying…”

“Trying,” he said lamely.

“ _Trying_ ,” she echoed quietly, looking down.

Steve shook his head, instantly not hungry anymore for the sandwich he’d been building. For what? For a dog or a cat maybe but not another human being.

“We can’t, I don’t even know who you are,” he stammered, anxiety flooding his body. “We haven’t even _…We have time.”_

“I’d be the first to agree with you there,” she snorted. “And anyway, it’s not like I know you either. I’m sure it wasn’t my idea if we were.”

He watched as any of the ground they’d covered earlier that evening suddenly increased and expanded, the weight of it on his chest and shoulders. It made sense, that Stefan and Natalie _had_  thought of children after all. But things had changed, that was a fact and plain as day. They didn’t know each other enough to have a child. The thought of it and he took a step back and away from her. He’d woken up one morning with a wife and the idea that he might also be responsible for a third person was illogical, even more so then the handguns and the cases and the mystery.

“You aren’t now, are you?” he said after more seconds of silence then was probably appropriate.

“No!” she stiffened. “God, no.”

“Well,” he thought about her relief that she wasn’t and her obvious aversion to the possibility. “Well, so if we aren’t trying, that means we aren’t trying…tonight.”

After the creep at the bar, Natalie had been angry, her whole body vibrating how powerless and done she was with their circumstances. But angry didn’t seem the right word to describe her reaction and he knew he’d made a mistake as soon as he’d said anything out loud.

“I don’t think so,” she said calmly, eyes narrowed. “Actually, I wanted to go see if I could go next door to borrow the neighbor’s laptop. So I think I’m going to be busy tonight. I wouldn’t wait.”

Steve watched helplessly as she turned toward her shoes and the door, not asking her to clarify what she meant, if she meant wait for tonight or wait indefinitely. Mind still reeling, it wasn’t until he heard their door shut that he kicked the cupboard door in frustration, stubbing his toe and cracking the wood in the process. Two steps forward, he thought to himself as he gripped the countertop, the memory of her lips and the way she’d leaned in to him, trusted him, still so fresh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things:  
> 1) Clint. Is a disaster.  
> 
> 
> 2)  
> 


	10. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many super soldiers and master assassins does it take to screw in a lightbulb?  
> This update doesn't answer that but if you know, let me know :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> passed through the beta inspection :) God, I love those ladies.

_ So we lay in the dark, _

_ We've got nothing to say. _

_ Just the beating of hearts, _

_ Like two drums in the grey. _

_ I don't know what we're doing, _

_ I don't know what we've done. _

_ But the fire is coming, _

_ So I think we should run _

_ Daughter- “Run” _

 

Natalie Roberts was, apparently,  a very common name. It would have been easier and less time-consuming if a search on Facebook and then Google had turned up zero results.

Natalie bit at one of her cuticles and sighed at the screen, her stomach knotting over her fourth fruitless search for herself on Facebook, using any variation of her name that she could think of. Finding Natalie Roberts had been the easy part. When she went back to their neighbors’ and asked to borrow their laptop again, when she tried searching again for herself, she thought maybe she might have told Steve they weren’t there in error. There were easily twenty “Natalie Roberts," maybe more because that didn’t include the Natalies who were hyphenated or who had added initials to their names. She thought, at first, that she might actually find herself until she clicked on every profile that might be hers and then the ones that obviously weren’t.

It wasn't a big deal, her neighbor had assured her with a shrug. Lots of people didn't have Facebook accounts, she’d said, adding that she was thinking of deleting hers because it was only another way for her mom to “put her nose in things.” Her neighbor, a girl with long black hair who looked like she was lying when she said she was twenty-two, handed her a mug of hot tea even though Natalie had said she wasn’t thirsty, before peering over her shoulder.

“The fact that I am living with my boyfriend makes my mother cry,” she said smugly, her neon green fingernails clicking against the kitchen table. “I don’t even go on anymore, she’s so obnoxious.”

And that made sense, Natalie supposed. A part of her wondered why she didn't have her own mother snooping through her life, or where Steve's mother was. And it wasn’t that their absence had her aching, exactly, but there was something there. Another thing she was missing. Parents. In-laws. Anyone that they had left behind.

Natalie looked at her nails. Short and neatly filed, something she had maintained without thinking since waking up, her disaster of cuticles being a current exception. “Hey, what would your mom do if you and your boyfriend ran away?”

The girl laughed. “Are you kidding me? My mom won't let me go a day without calling her. She would be banging at the door, calling the cops and the news to find me. God, how embarrassing.”

Natalie grimaced, again feeling the loss of any memories or synaptic responses to the idea of her own mother. There was nothing there and she felt sorry for not remembering.

“Why? Did you guys run away? That's so romantic!” her neighbor sighed.

Natalie smiled, not sure of whether or not she wanted to go with that lie or not, unsure she could even classify it as a lie if she wasn’t sure of the truth. Romantic? They couldn't be further from that thought, unless picking fights about birth control counted for anything. _Why had she even gone there?_

It wasn’t that she didn’t expect the conversation to be awkward. Part of negotiating their current arrangement included awkward. Their daily life was awkward as they tiptoed around each other. Where they slept? What happened when they slept and someone’s hand accidentally touched someone else’s? Who paid the bill? Who took out the trash and who cracked the eggs for breakfast? Negotiations happened all the time..

_(Getting dressed and undressed, taking turns in the bathroom, Steve’s red face when she refused to hide her underwear as it dried)_

_(Natalie running into the bathroom to pee only to find a half-naked Steve staring at her, razor in hand and half his face lathered in cream, and she suddenly couldn’t feel her legs because she hadn’t meant to catch him in such a vulnerable and quiet position, and yet there he was, male and incredible and hers, she reminded herself, if she wanted it.)_

_(And wasn’t it the thought of touching his face after he’d shaved, of pushing her nose to his cheek to inhale the scent of aftershave and the way his skin was hot, she knew it was, that had her curiously looking in their bags and in drawers for contraceptives? The Roberts’ had to have a healthy sex life, how could they not, and she’d searched almost as frantically as when she’d torn apart their bedroom to look for knives, refusing to believe that they didn’t even as her search turned up empty, like every other thing she’d searched for. And the thought that they weren’t, that they didn’t- that she was stuck in a marriage without intimacy was horrifying enough that the only other conclusion- children- made just enough sense.)_

A grown-up would have just suggested a quick run to the pharmacy for condoms.

A grown-up would have stopped to consider that perhaps one of them couldn’t. Plumbing difficulties. The possibility of kids off the table. ( _Not because of me_ , she’d snorted indignantly at the thought, remembering the dismay she’d felt at feeling the warmth between her legs only two weeks earlier, her fingertips red with the evidence when she’d checked.)

She felt like a fool. She’d brought the whole thing up out of her own anxiety.  A few good kisses and her mind had jumped immediately to the conclusion that he would want more. Because she’d wanted more. The way his breath caught when he looked at her in the taxicab, the heat from his face, and she didn’t know what she would have done if they hadn’t been interrupted by the neighbors and their new mattress.

Something about it had been instinctual. From a place of anxiety and fear, because she didn’t know. It felt right. _He_ felt right, even if alarm bells rang in her head about everything else they’d learned about their lives. _He will be remembered forever_ , but she _didn’t_ remember and even though she wanted to fall into bed with him and see how much their bodies remembered of each other, the idea that they might have tried to get pregnant was terrifying and too fast, much too fast.

They were kissing and she knew he was game and she wanted him but the unknowns floated up to her consciousness and she felt like she was drowning. No matter how much they pretended, she’d felt every neuron in her body pull back in a fear that felt so _part of her_ even if she couldn’t say how.

The question of whether or not their parents would ever bang down their door gnawed at her. Doctor Velasco had suggested alerting the media in case someone was looking for them, but she and Steve had both shut it down, with equal fervor.  As if hiding was instinctual, even if illogical.

And yet…

Opening a browser, she typed in her name, holding her breath as the page loaded. She thought about what she might find. Someone's mother searching frantically for her or for Steve. Newspaper articles searching for a missing couple- Where are they? Are they alright?

What she found was just as disconcerting. More of the same. Natalie Roberts, pediatrician in Hoboken. Natalie Roberts, freelance journalist in London. Natalie Roberts, yoga instructor. Not Natalie Roberts, MBA married to Stefan and traipsing around Chile with amnesia.

Whoever they were, they didn’t have a digital footprint.

Natalie furrowed her brow, reaching for her purse to pull out a folded piece of paper. Her resume.

***

**Natalie Roberts**

2104 N. Capitol Ave.* Indianapolis, IN 46202 * 317-920-9917* nroberts@zmail.com

 **EDUCATION**  

University of Pennsylvania, Wharton School of Business, Philadelphia, PA

Master of Business Administration                                                   2010 - 2012

Specialization: Marketing Research

Key Coursework: Marketing Management, Marketing Research, Consumer Behavior, Managing Behavior in Organizations

The University of Notre Dame, Notre Dame, IN

Bachelor of Arts, International Economics                                       2006-2010

Recipient, Full Tuition Presidential Merit Scholarship

**PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE**

Executive Assistant, 2006 to Present | ABC COMPANY | Indianapolis, IN

  * Provide administrative and business support to the CEO of Indianapolis’s largest manufacturing firm and support other members of the executive management team.
  * Maintain CEO’s calendar -- plan and schedule meetings, teleconferences and travel.
  * Negotiated favorable terms and pricing agreements with resorts, vendors, caterers and other providers for service at special events, saving at least $50K annually.
  * Improved office efficiency by implementing color-coded filing system and introducing additional time-saving measures.
  * Enhanced communication between manufacturing department and executive team, fostering a sense of teamwork and collaboration.



 

**ACHIEVEMENTS**

  *        Proficient in Spanish
  *        Volunteer for Indianapolis’s City Marathon (2010)
  *        Conducted business and personal travel throughout Australia, Europe and Latin America



***

Her resume was complete bullshit.

Natalie hardly expected to find an email from anyone in her email folder, hardly expected her email to even be real after all of the dead ends, and yet there it was. The one time she had successfully entered a password and it wasn’t even anything remotely secure ( _Evets_ ). It made her laugh, how easy it had been to open her email, almost too easy as if it was _meant_ to be easy not that she could begin to imagine _why._

It was a mostly empty inbox and she applauded her pre-memory self on the organization. A handful of junk emails from shoedazzle.com and expedia. An email from _thenest.com_ congratulating Natalie on creation of her new account _(“the Web’s round-the-clock spot for hip and harried married gals!”)._ And a chain of emails from j.arellano@roxxongas.cl.

“Well,” she exhaled slowly before clicking on the latest, sent only the day before. She didn’t know what to expect and when she read over a chain of emails asking if she and her husband had arrived safely, if she was still interested in the job, she started laughing. The knot in her throat burned and she laughed through it, hitting the reply button before she could think.

“We had a medical emergency,” she said out loud as she typed. “I am still very interested.”

A job?

A job.

A lead into something about who she was. She looked at her flimsy one-page resume and laughed again.  She had minimal and vague experience and yet, something had happened for her to get hired halfway across the world. Scrolling down, she gnawed again at one particularly long hangnail and looked for where things had started. It was a job. Executive Assistant to the Director of Export Sales, specifically and somewhat in line with what she’d done just after graduation.

_You come highly recommended. We are sure you and your husband will fit in quite well here._

“Recommended by who?” she asked out loud, flipping her resume over in case there were contacts on the back she’d somehow missed something.  She pulled up a search engine and started typing in clues from her past. _ABC Company. Wharton._

Natalie felt giddy. She’d been given a _why._ Even if it made no sense, even if it failed to explain one hundred other things in her life .  

***

When Steve knocked on their neighbor’s door and Natalie answered, he was taken aback by how relieved she looked to see him. He’d prepared a speech, after all, about how he knew she probably needed time to think but they were married. And how he really thought they should talk. He’d paced through the house after she’d left and then paced around the block, thinking about it. There was no reason they couldn’t have an adult conversation about things. About sex. About what their goals were as long as they were stuck in amnesia-limbo. He just needed her to be logical, it wasn’t like he could read her mind.

He’d written a monologue in his mind, with a plan to sit her down and tell her that he was open to exploring and discussing all of those things so long as they talked. Neither one of them could logically argue for children and it seemed, if anything, like they were on the same page. If they could just _talk_ , instead of constantly biting on each other for every little thing.

“Natalie, I’m sorry,” he started to say and she sighed, giving him a weak smile. “I know it’s frustrating…”

“We need to talk,” she sighed, reaching for his hand. “I’m glad to see you.”

Steve furrowed his brow and followed her lead as she walked home, their neighbor’s laptop crooked under her arm. She could have at least acknowledged that he was trying, he thought bitterly. He’d spent the past few hours trying to figure out what he wanted to say, how he felt about everything, where to even begin. She was like a tornado, a confusing whirlwind and he wondered if he’d ever figure out what she wanted from him, if he would ever figure out what he wanted from her.

“We need to talk,” she repeated as she rummaged through their refrigerator for water, tossing him a bottle even though he hadn’t asked.

“Yes, we do,” he answered, frowning at the drink in his hand before unscrewing the cap.  

“I have a job,” she announced, something _careful_ in her voice. He could see the _but_ hanging right around the corner, the other part of the story because that was their life in a nutshell.

“How?” He was afraid to ask.

“I think that’s why we are here,” she  leaned against the refrigerator.  “Apparently,  we are also meant to be part of the Roxxon machine. Or at least I am.”

Steve watched her face for clues. A job was a good thing, wasn't it? It was a reason, at least, and something with meaning. She reviewed her internet search and the emails she’d received, the slip of excitement in her voice contagious. If she’d found answers about who she was, it would only lead to answers for him about himself.

“The oil company? This is good, right? How…”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It looks like it was set up before..” She touched her head. Before their accident.

“We should celebrate,” he said, taking in a deep breath. She looked at him then like he was crazy, like he hadn’t heard the uncertainty, and then she laughed.

“Don’t laugh,” Steve smiled. “Really. This is nice. A Roxxon job? This is _normal_.”

“But it doesn’t…” Natalie started, stopping at the sound of their neighbors, and the nightly music serenade next door.

“More questions,” he nodded, putting his water bottle down. “We should make a list of all of the things we don’t know and might never know. Who are we? How are we even together? Do we want kids?”

She laughed again. “Actually, It’s not that hard to imagine why we are together, Steve.”

“Really?” He met her laugh with one of his own, though his disbelief must have come through because she put her water bottle on the counter top and took a step toward him, her face softened.

“Yeah. I mean, besides the obvious.”

“The obvious,” he crooked up an eyebrow.  

Natalie bit her lip and looked down for just a second, and his chest ached. It was confusing, least of all because he wasn’t sure that they were on the same page yet. She looked toward their neighbors’ apartment, where the harder music had given way to a slower, bluesy tune, before meeting his eyes.

“That you are painfully beautiful,” she admitted. She looked so sly, so controlled. He wondered what she’d look like when she lost control, when she let herself be vulnerable. The woman couldn’t remember her own name but Lord if she was going to look weak. And then she sighed again and relaxed her shoulders before reaching out to press her hand against his chest.

“I have a lot to be scared about, Steve,” she said quietly. “But I’m not afraid of you.”

“Natalie,” he breathed, voice growing hoarse as she leaned against him. The walls hummed with a low piano and she reached for his hand.

“Do you dance, Mr. Roberts?” she pulled him close, her body swaying slightly.

He swallowed, wishing he could remember. Clutching her waist with one arm, he moved slowly with her in their darkened kitchen. Not for the first time, he decided the new memories made with her were more important than the old ones anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In my mind, their neighbors were playing Van Morrison "Into the Mystic" and "Whiter Shade of Pale" by Procol Harum
> 
> \- Natalie's address is a real place. Cookies for anyone who finds it muwhahaaa smug author is smug. i almost make a fake nest profile. God I have problems. 
> 
> also, I don't wanna say the smut is coming. But the smut is coming.


	11. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do I say about this chapter? Except that it's E-rated and entirely necessary. 11 pages of necessary consummation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spanglecap beta'd most of this for feels. It is the closest thing to PNP I have ever written in my life, though I tried to keep it consistent and sensical. I think, if anyone else had gotten a hold of this prompt that there probably wouldn't have been a chapter like this. Alas, they gave it to me who has only ever published E-rated fic. 
> 
> Written to the soundtrack of Otis Redding, Ray Charles, and Norah Jones. Gifs at the end of the chapter served as consistent inspiration. Unf.

_"It's not the pale moon that excites me_  
_That thrills and delights me, oh no_  
_It's just the nearness of you_  
  
_It isn't your sweet conversation_  
_That brings this sensation, oh no_  
_It's just the nearness of you_  
  
_When you're in my arms and I feel you so close to me_  
_All my wildest dreams came true_  
  
_I need no soft lights to enchant me_  
_If you'll only grant me the right_  
_To hold you ever so tight_  
_And to feel in the night the nearness of you_  
  
_-"The Nearness of You" as sung by Norah Jones, written by Ned Jones and Hoagy Carmichael_

 

Somehow, they made it, fumbling through.

Natalie sighed into him, cheek on the shoulder of the soft of the henley he was wearing, and tried to think of only what she knew right then. That even though they weren’t moving with the music, they were moving together. That the hand he’d put tentatively on her waist was deliciously heavy, that it belonged there, transfering heat and energy from his body into hers even fully clothed. That when he brushed his lips against her forehead, her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes just so she wouldn’t float away, wouldn’t forget the tenderness of it all. They weren’t moving to the music, in fact kept moving even when the music had long ended. This wasn’t frantic or desperate like the kisses in the church or the taxicab on the way home. This wasn’t skittish or nervous like the furtive glances as they tiptoed around each other.  It was slow. Meant to be.

His lips were so soft, his breath shaky and warm when he pressed them to hers, and she hummed. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t hold back, her heart was pounding loud enough to shake her body, making its own music. This kiss wasn’t insistent, even if she exhaled against him, even when she swayed her hips just a little more and curled her fingers against his chest as if to say, _yes, good, this is nice, we don’t need to stop just yet._

He paused, moving as if he needed a minute to hide in her hair, his breath hot and wet against her ear, and Natalie sighed again, not wanting to open her eyes. They had every reason to take things slow, baby steps, but she thought maybe if she kept her eyes closed, the quiet wouldn’t have to end. Maybe the universe would allow them this moment after all.

But in the quiet, her mind raced.  Her fingers had found their way to his throat, to his Adam’s apple, and _God, he was alive._ Alive, the proof right there underneath her fingertips and she shivered, thinking of the snow. The snow! She hadn’t thought of that in a while, of how she’d not wanted to move but he’d been there, she’d felt him. Her baritone.  He was alive and so was she, and she’d known him hadn’t she? And yet, they didn’t exist. But he didn’t know that. He didn’t know what she knew, that everything in her resume was a lie, that nothing checked out…

“We don’t exist,” she told him as they danced slowly. She’d meant to tell him sooner, something that he needed to know, that he deserved to know.  “I’ve looked and we don’t exist.”

“But you are right here, in my arms,” he shook his head and pulled back, concern on his face but also stubbornness about what she’d said. How ridiculous, how absurd, to suggest they weren’t real. Steve slid a hand through her hair, his palm a temptation she wanted to lean into. “Did you find something? Do you have a memory?”

“I can’t find anything. I can’t find us,” she wrinkled her face, meeting his eyes because she was not going to look away, not then.

“Is this because of that internet thing?” He broke apart from her. She noticed, straightening her back and lowering her shoulders because she was not going to show him how much that hurt. How much she actually needed him to keep touching her and not let go, to prove that she was real and not a ghost, as alive as he was.

“No, that was just the smoke for the fire,” she shook her head. “No, we aren’t real. I don’t know how I have this job because nothing about my resume is real. It’s not just that we aren’t on facebook. It’s that no one knows me. No one from my alma mater, no one from the company I used to work for…”

He nodded, taking the information in, and it looked like he was still trying to figure it all out. “But maybe it’s just been a long time?”

“There are no records of Natalie Roberts, Steve. No records of Natalie, no records of Stefan. We don’t exist,” she explained as clearly as she could. “We don’t have a history of friends, family. No one looking for us. No history at all. My old address is even bullshit. Do you know what address I use on my resume?”

He shook his head and she took in a deep breath.

“Circle fucking K, Steve. A Circle fucking K. A convenience store.”

“Natalie,” he winced, sounding just as frustrated as she’d been only hours earlier. “Someone is looking for us. There has to be an explanation.  Your old place got torn down…”

She kept going, her voice raising as if to make sure he really heard her. “I called. I thought of that. It’s been there since the seventies, Steve. We don’t exist.”

He looked at her, lips in a straight line and his jaw tight as he considered all that she had to say, and Natalie felt guilty. She wasn’t the one to erase them, it wasn’t her fault, and she knew that. But she felt guilty even so, for telling him. For bearing yet another surprise. He was quiet for a long time and Natalie thought about what she could possibly tell him to soften the blow or to backtrack. She opened her mouth to apologize, to say something to break the silence, but he reached out to touch her face again and she stopped.

“Natalie,” he said her name again, quietly, his face still tight, severe enough that she knew he believed what he was about to say. “You exist. I exist. And someone is looking for us. There has to be a reason.”

“We are aliens? Is that your real face even? We’ve been abducted or we’re running away and no one knows or cares…”

“We exist,” he interrupted her, framing her face with both hands so that she had no choice but to stop and listen. She whimpered just a little, feeling suddenly helpless all over again, and he kissed her. “We exist, we are real.”

Natalie heard him, heard the control in his voice, firm and authoritative, and felt herself concede. She turned her face to kiss one of his palms out of … _gratitude?_ He was really all she had, after all, and his breath hitched.

“Pretend?” she asked, looking toward him with one eyebrow arched. It was only the same game they always played. Pretend who they were, that they had a real history, that this wasn’t the first or the last time they would find comfort in each other. He nodded slowly and she watched his chest rise and fall, watched his lips part _so beautiful_ as she opened her mouth to suck gently on the fleshy pad of his palm. Her teeth grazed over skin and his fingers twitched against her hairline. It made her smile and she pulled him by his shirt closer so that her lips could corroborate what he had just told her. That she existed and was real and alive.

The same slow kisses and when Natalie’s hands traced the lines of his chest and down to his belt line he jumped, making her laugh out loud. He covered her hands with his own and looked down at her, eyes wide open and wild and making her want with every urgency.  They should stop. Slow down. Still strangers, right? She waited for him to give her a signal that she was out of line but he swallowed and pressed his lips to hers, moving his hands back up to her face and the nape of her neck instead. Natalie smiled into his mouth, reaching under his shirt to feel how hot his skin was and he kissed her harder, deeper, tongue pushing against her lips and then along her own tongue. Insistent. _By all means, keep going, don't let me stop you._  Not that she about to, not when she pulled his shirt over his head and ran her hands along his shoulders. This was a sight she’d seen before. A sight she’d ached for before, and she didn’t know where to start. No, she decided as she traced his muscles, as she ran her nails down his abdomen. She could pretend just a bit longer.

Natalie felt her own skin flush, pausing to pull an arm through her sleeve when he gave a quick hum, scooping her up into his arms before she had a chance to finish. She laughed at the sight, her shirt half on and rucked up so that she could feel his skin as he carried her to the bedroom. To _their_ bedroom, she mused as she clutched his neck, feeling so weightless and light.  Their bedroom, where she’d spent so many nights wishing he’d hold her, wishing he’d touch her at all. Where she’d pretended not to be bothered when his foot accidentally touched hers or when he sighed in his sleep. Just the other night, when the neighbors had been especially loud, he’d huffed and gotten up to slam the door shut for the bathroom and she’d tried not to laugh because it wasn’t fair, was it? And now he was laying her gently down, looking down at her like she was something he might break, and she thought she might combust.

“Okay?” she grinned, pulling the rest of her top off and throwing it on the floor. Steve’s chest heaved and he furrowed his brow, taking a seat beside her but not going further. He wanted her, she knew he did, and yet he stopped as though he was unsure. She moved to her knees and touched his arm, because maybe he thought they were going too fast after all.

“I can’t remember,” he looked down at his hands, mournful. “I can’t remember being with you.”

Natalie’s heart stirred and she planted a quick kiss on his bicep. She’d tried to think about what she knew about sex and making love and what she could link back to her husband, and she could only remember ideas. Mechanics but not faces. She couldn’t remember him either but that made it better, didn’t it? They’d both been given second chance.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked, licking the salt of his skin without thinking. He shuddered, looking over her like that was the craziest suggestion, even crazier than the idea of two amnesiacs in some kind of exile from the rest of the world.

“No,” Steve admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I just wish I could remember what to do. What you liked.”

Natalie bit her lip and moved his arms so that she could curl onto his lap, bracketing his body with her thighs, and look him in the eyes. “It’s our second-first time. How lucky are we? Maybe we can both figure that out together?”

He laughed and looked down, and she rolled her hips down against him for good measure in case he thought to change his mind. His laugh was uneasy and he gave a small whimper in response, his eyes locked on her bra-covered breasts, overwhelmed like he didn’t know where to start. That made Natalie feel triumphant. No matter what they’d forgotten, some things were just inherent. Biological.

“I feel like a goddamn virgin,” he mumbled, hands running tentatively up her legs to rest on her hips. Natalie crooked his chin up with her fingers, her heart tender at how nervous he seemed. He’d always been that way, right from the beginning, and she smirked. How much of that was who he had been before? How much of the awe and reverence was part of him, knitted into his character even without memories?

“But we know that isn’t true, Dear Husband,” she reasoned, kissing him as she rolled her hips again. He was hard and she appreciated the small friction, not enough but something to relieve the heat of her core. They could just get off this way, still too clothed but safe and guarded, and it could be counted as a win in her mind. Wouldn’t take too long, not for either of them, she thought as she shuddered against him. But they were married and she felt stubborn about the whole thing, and even just a bit selfish. The friction of clothes and the pressure of him against her was nice but they _weren’t_ virgins. She grabbed his hand and put it against one of her breasts, shuddering again when he groaned. No, she needed more. They’d waited long enough.

He pulled one strap down, gentle like it was on fire, before looking up for further directions or a signal. She nodded, _keep going,_ and he did.

They hadn’t replaced the lamp she’d broken, had to make do with the light of a street lamp and the moon. It gave her skin a blue tinge, which she thought rich considering the tenuous relationship she personally felt she had with reality but he looked at her as though he was memorizing every line and shadow, and it felt right.

“You’ll tell me,” he rasped, “when it doesn’t feel right? If I do something wrong?”  His thumb burned into the skin of her shoulder and she arched her back, as if to emphasize how much she wanted him and wanted more.

“Yes,” she promised and his fingers walked down to the edge of her bra, peeking the fabric down just to give him a glimpse. He was holding his breath, she realized, and she reached out to touch one of his nipples in encouragement, as if maybe she could just model what she wanted. Steve moved a shoulder back, a small laugh escaping his lips and she thought maybe she’d tickled him. But he did take note, pulling her breast out so that he could trace the nipple, the sensation an electric current through her body.

“Good,” she breathed, and he reached behind her to fumble with the clasp. Natalie laughed as he cursed, peeking over her shoulder as his fingers figured out the hooks and eyelets. She considered helping him, but he must have picked up on the mechanics of it all because then she was free and he had her, hands forming shaky cups around her as he scanned her body and studied her reactions. With every nod she gave, every moan and whimper, he looked relieved. He kept looking up, just in case, as his lips pressed against her throat, trailed down in pecks that morphed into wet, open-mouthed kisses.  This was not rough or heated, not the way she’d often envisioned how they fucked, and she felt impatient. He was so careful, so slow, Natalie almost thought he was doing it just to torture her except that something about it felt alright. She grabbed his shoulders so she wouldn’t fall back when he finally pulled a nipple in between his lips.

“Gentle,” she squeaked, squeezing his shoulder out of instinct, and he looked up, sheepish. Natalie thought he might stop all together until he bent back down, adjusting his technique for more tongue and less suction. If he’d forgotten, he either remembered or a lightbulb went off and she sighed, wiggling against him until he rested his forehead into between her breasts, out of breath like he was dying.

“Natalie,” he croaked into her skin, asking her for mercy. She felt his length through his jeans, more validation, before reaching to tug on his zipper. They had time for foreplay, they had time to relearn, that was all true. But that only meant there was no reason to get this part out of the way. Again, he covered her hand with his, not moving her but trying to tell her…

“Are you sure?” he asked and Natalie answered him with lips and tongue, not sure how else to tell him how much she was ready. She stood up and changed focus to her own pants, pulling them down while he watched slack-jawed. It was a curious sight and Natalie considered covering her body with her arms, suddenly all too aware of every dimple and freckle. Of that scar, a raised reminder of a past life and more questions.

“Scars are just another kind of memory,” he whispered, brushing fingertips against the scar. Natalie thought she might weep and or turn into a ball of flames then, remembering the note in her wallet. The note he’d given her and then it all made sense. He remembered, he had to even if he said he didn’t. Parts of him remembered her and them and the little details like that damned scar, and even if they didn’t have proof of existence outside of their little home in the middle of nowhere Chile, that was real enough.

“I’m not sure, how I got it…” she confessed and he swallowed, looking up with concern.

“It’s probably a good thing to forget.”

That was probably true, she nodded. She’d thought as much herself. It would have been handy if they’d been able to pick and choose what memories they were allowed to keep and which ones could be tossed away. This scar- she knew it had been something violent and painful and a part of her was just fine forgetting. Forgetting that or forgetting the smell of gunpowder or any number of ways the skin stretched or changed color when different methods of abuse were applied. Whoever or whatever had designed their current situation had been especially cruel though, hadn’t they? To take away those memories but also the good ones.

 _Well._ She ran her fingers through his sandy hair and took in a deep breath. _Well,_ the good news was that memories could be remade.  He grunted, leaning head back into her hands, his own hooking on the waistband of her panties and waiting for permission. Permission she ached to give, even feeling as vulnerable as she did. Pulling his hand, she twisted away to climb on their bed, pushing covers down because kissing and touching and grinding into him was great but at that moment, she needed more.

Steve stood for a second like he was shell-shocked, eyes sweeping her skin and a goofy smile like she’d never seen before, like he was about to get caught doing something he shouldn’t. But she rolled her eyes playfully and he nodded like he remembered that if he at least wanted things to go further, he’d have to be more naked than he was.

“I wish,” she sighed as he pushed his pants down, as he stood naked in front of her. “I wish I could say that I remembered this.”

It was a thought she would have again, though she wouldn’t say it, minutes later when he was crawling on the bed and kneeling in between her thighs.

“Tell me when it’s not right,” he repeated, emphatic and obviously convinced he was about to make a mistake. It made her nervous but she rolled her eyes at the both of them for how awkward and careful it was.  

When he pushed inside, Natalie half-expected it to hurt. They’d moved like it was their first time, and he’d seemed so cautious that she didn’t think she would have been surprised. And it was…tight. Tight as her body adjusted and she found her bearings around him. How long had it been? Steve’s eyes fluttered shut as he bottomed out, as far as he could go, and she clenched around him, her hips bucking up as a way of telling him that he could keep going, that in fact she thought he could go even deeper.

She meant to tell him it was okay, that she was definitely able to take more when he did start moving, at first with the careful intensity she’d anticipated not that she had any space to complain. But then a hand gripped her thigh and he picked up pace, and she felt herself melting into the bed, everything merging into one-word thoughts.

_Skin. Nerves. Hot. Hard. More._

_Yes._

“Don’t...you can’t finish…” she whimpered, the little shred of responsibility speaking up for her. Not that she even cared, not at that moment, even though she thought she _should_ care. It would be okay, she reasoned. They were together and it would be okay, if things happened, not that they would because they couldn’t get any unluckier than they already were.

“What?” he gasped, as though he hadn’t heard her, and she arched her back because he was close and she thought with the right movement, she’d be right there, even if she was supposed to stop.

“We can’t...you can’t finish inside,” she said, fumbling for the words, her hands moving to his hips for gentle pushes to tell him that he had to stop.

Steve looked at her like she was crazy, like she was cruel, but he nodded, pulling out with a groan. Natalie grabbed his neck with one hand, pulling him down for a kiss as she covered his cock with her other hand. Hot, he was so hot, so heavy and he cursed into her mouth, telling her to _be gentle, be careful, don’t stop,_ and little murmurs that made her moan in return.  She used fingers and pressure, and it wasn’t the same but it would have to be enough. Even as he fucked her hand, he _apologized_ and Natalie laughed, wondering if she’d ever break him of that, of being afraid to hurt or offend her.

“That's good,” she purred and he came quietly, little ribbons of heat that splashed on her belly and her hand, collapsing beside her with a roll. Natalie looked over and smiled, feeling smug even if she also felt sticky, wiping her hand on the blanket as she considered what to do next.

“Natalie,” he choked her name out as he struggled to recover his breath and his wits.

“Well, there we go. Not our first time anymore, is it?” She hadn’t finished, was in fact writhing beside him in frustration, but she also really wanted to get cleaned off. He looked over, eyes sleepy and satisfied, and nodded, reaching out to roll one of her nipples in his fingers almost absentmindedly. He looked rather smug himself.

“We aren’t done, are we?” he asked, eager enough to give her hope that she would also be considered and she shook her head.

“Good,” he grinned, leaning forward to kiss her, his hand moving to cup her face. “God, Natalie. God, I hate that I can’t remember…”

“Let it go,” she hushed him, because there wasn’t anything else either of them could do.

“It’s just…” he started to say something, stopping so that he could lumber out of bed and stand up. She wrinkled her forehead, disappointed that he was getting up and disappointed that he had stopped after all. After all that she’d learned about him and how careful and nice he was, it felt out of character for him to get up and walk away from her. Pushing herself up on her elbows she watched open-mouthed as he disappeared.

“Steve,” she called out, relieved when he came back, a wet towel in hand.

“No rush, right?” he shrugged, grinning with all teeth when she huffed, when she sighed at the touch of the cool cloth on her stomach.

“Maybe a little rush,” she confessed. “I didn’t come.”

“I know,” he said, running the towel over her belly and then her thighs, in between her legs. Natalie gripped the sheets and whimpered, feeling like she was about to fly out of her skin. “Just, tell me where to go.”

She laughed, spreading her legs to give him room between her thighs. And he continued, chasing the towel with his lips and nervous kisses. Her stomach, her thighs, and finally _there._  

He pulled her apart, just as gentle as everything else, just as unsure and she was so far gone, so ready she didn’t even care. _Jesus_ , he murmured into her, and she didn’t know if he said it for her to hear. Just one light finger, tracing her folds from top to bottom, and she was shivering, squirming, almost begging.

“Tell me..” he reminded her and she groaned, reaching below so that she could run her own fingers down, pressing her own palm into her clit or else she’d lose her mind.

“If you don’t keep stopping, so help me,” she warned, though she must have whined because he chuckled and kissed the inside of her thigh.

“This is definitely my favorite part of you,” he announced, pausing to kiss her hand, her fingers, and bless him, the peek of flesh between them. “It’s a part I definitely hope to be reaquainted with.”

“A long-lost friend,” she smiled through gritted teeth, whimpering when he moved her hand altogether, picking up where she’d left off with little licks and a tentative push of his pointer finger.

“Right,” he agreed, pushing her legs farther apart. “Nope, I’m not planning to ever forget you again.”

“I can’t tell... who you are even... talking to.”

He didn’t answer, too busy, not that she cared. At one point, he figured out a rhythm, braver and braver with every circle of his tongue, and then he figured out how to use a combination of licks and strokes, and Natalie had to remind herself to breathe. There it was, almost painful, she could feel it close, so close. _Please,_ she begged. And then Steve added suction.

And there it was. A quick blur, lightening bolts that had her whole body shaking, grabbing at his hair, at the covers, and she wanted more because it was delicious and pure and yet that felt impossible. Her thoughts were a jumble of _bozhe bozhe moy_ they had lost so much, so many lost memories but it was okay because this made sense, _they_ made sense, her skin both burned and was cool and he hadn't stopped at all, was kissing her as she came down and Natalie couldn't tell if he was doing that on purpose or naivete but _no more no more, bozhe moy please no more._

 _“_ Oh God,” she panted and he moved so that he could rest on his back beside her, his cheeks red and his face proud. She shivered, reaching for the blanket, when he held one arm out. An invitation and she smiled, content though at first she didn’t know why. She pressed her ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat, the only sound she even cared to hear.

“Are you alright?” he asked, hand stroking her bare shoulder, and she frowned. Why wouldn’t she be? Especially after that, after something she’d been craving and needed for long enough. And then she realized that her cheeks were wet and she nodded, looking up so that he could see that she really was.

“We don’t have to pretend, you know,” he whispered, touching her tears lightly. “I don’t want to.”

It was such an obvious suggestion, so clear as day to her, and she didn’t think to hesitate because she didn’t want to pretend either. It was sealed, a deal. She reached for his hand, the one wearing a wedding ring, and kissed his knuckles. It was real, real enough. _They_ were real. The rest would have to fall into place or they’d just have to rebuild, brick by brick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>    
> 


	12. lay them straight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little lime-y smut at the end to help everyone NOT in the US who gets to see CW a week early grieve. But also, potential trigger warnings for the part in italics. I hemmed and hawed. Blood mentions. Maybe a teensy gory. I wrote it on my phone driving past Flagstaff, Arizona on a family roadtrip and when I looked back, I was like "man. Man oh man I am creeping myself out." 
> 
> Beta'd 2x by the lovely Spanglecap and Dresupi.

_Jesus Christ can't save me tonight_

_Put on your dress, yes wear something nice_

_Decide on me, yea decide on us_

_-Sleep on the Floor, the Lumineers_

 

Not remembering was funny. Over time they stopped talking about it, stopped talking about what happened  _ before.  _ It was as if amnesia was something to be taken for granted and their memories moved from foreground to background, always there and something they acknowledged quietly.  They were making new memories, something they both clung to stubbornly. Their second chance. Steve didn't want to look back and say he’d wasted it.

“That’s an interesting tune,” she said, interrupting him as he made the bed. He looked up to see her, bare except for one of his white t-shirts. She’d started doing that, almost immediately after their first time, walking around in his shirts.  Steve’s eyes swept over her in appreciation and he thought about what he’d have to say to get her out of the shirt. Not much, and he looked down just so she wouldn’t see him grinning like he only had one thing on his mind.

Which was partly true and accurate, not that she could blame him.

“What tune?” he asked, walking over with his hands on his hips. They'd just gotten out of bed, he had just finished making it, but he caught sight of her bare thighs and had half a mind to touch her. They were still learning, still experimenting. He had only just found the spot on her abdomen that made her jump and gasp the night before. She wouldn't begrudge him, he didn't think, if he tugged on her- his- shirt and pulled her right back.

Natalie hummed something, a fast song that sounded like a radio jingle if anything. Steve hadn't even noticed he'd been humming it. He laughed a little at the revelation, his gut tightening.

A memory.

“I didn't realize,” he started to explain, surprised. He hadn't but when she hummed it back, he recognized it as the song from his dream, the one being sung to him. She looked curious, biting the inside of her cheek, and he felt compelled to fill the silence with an explanation even if he couldn't find one.

“It's from a dream I had,” he supplied and she looked down. “Just a dream. Who knows what it means.”

“It’s a sign,” Natalie interrupted, grabbing his waist so that she could pull him close. “Maybe things will start coming back.”

She looked hopeful. It was contagious and he let himself imagine how much better things would be when they remembered who they were. Not just who they were together but who he was, what he  _ did _ besides wander around feeling lost. Work, purpose. Something. He kissed the top of her head and tried to focus on the hope instead of the underlying despair.

“I’m going to lose all of my shirts, aren’t I?” he asked, changing the subject as he picked at her shoulder. They’d kept on disappearing, his shirts, one-by-one. Starting as rags she used to clean and then she was wearing them, not that he minded. Natalie shrugged, her eyes mischievous as if to say that they damn well might and there’d be nothing he could do to stop it.

“I need it,” she explained, pulling back to walk into their bathroom. “I need something I can wear that I can get dirty.”

She showed him the box of hair color she had waiting on the counter, a much darker color than the blonde she’d been using because she’d said she didn’t want to start working with her roots showing as much as they’d grown in.

“It feels like I’m wearing a costume, with the blonde,” she explained as she started mixing the color. “I don’t know, maybe the old me liked it but…”

“We aren’t who we used to be,” Steve filled in the blanks, leaning against the door frame to watch as she parted her hair, put plastic gloves on and started applying goop, the entire house filled with the scent of ammonia in minutes. “Why not red, like in our picture?”

She looked at him through the mirror.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m her either.”

Steve could relate. If asked, he could only give a bare idea of who he thought he was, and he wasn’t sure how much of that was even right. The only thing he was actually certain of was Natalie, and that was a thought that gave him pause.

Surely he was more, there was more.

He was always close but not quite. When he flexed his hands, when he picked up a pencil. Just then, when he realized there was a song he knew. He felt restless, anxious even. She was enough but was he? Intrinsically, underneath his skin and in his core, was he enough? Could he be enough for her? For a family with her, if it came to that? Thoughts that kept him awake at night because he wasn’t sure.

He watched her saturate her hair, watched it get darker, drops of brown falling on the collar of his shirt. When he closed his eyes, the image of her standing on her toes and coloring her hair was imprinted deep. He’d sketch it later, though he’d stopped asking the question of when or where he’d learned to draw.  

“I have to wait twenty-five minutes,” she announced when she’d finished, peeling the gloves off and tossing them in the sink. She bit her bottom lip and hoisted herself up onto the countertop, spreading her legs so he could see the glorious flash of red curls that he was quite thankful for. “If you’d like to help me pass the time.”

So he did because it  _ was _ a valid way to pass the time. More than valid, because she was the perfect drug for not thinking and his already small world was focused on the way she smelled, slightly sweet, and how it combined with the smell of the chemicals in her hair to make him dizzy. He knelt between her legs and listened to her pant, the sound of her breath like quiet music, and forgot.

And when she’d finished, was hugging her knees to her chest and leaning back against the mirror, he turned on the shower and peeled his own clothes off.

“A bit presumptuous,” she teased, hopping off the counter and stretching, his shirt riding up to expose her tight stomach and everything else, her skin flushed and sweaty, something he took as a compliment. He couldn't remember and everything felt new, but he enjoyed learning. Enjoyed studying and memorizing his wife and what made her fall apart. What about them that was good.

“C’mere,” he beckoned and she obliged, stepping into the shower with him.

He watched in fascination as the dye ran down her neck, her breasts, her thighs. When she turned and let him lather her hair with conditioner, the dye washed down her back and on his hands and feet before swirling down the drain.

“Tell me about the dream,” she asked as he massaged her hair. And he did, telling her about the woman and all that he could remember.

“Something about home,” he admitted, his heart aching at the memory.

“She sounds like your mother,” Natalie said, as if it was obvious. And something about the idea squeezed his heart, something about it felt true.  _ Home. Mother.  _

“She told me to come home.”

Natalie turned, meeting his eyes and pulling him close, darkened hair in wet clumps against her skin. She didn’t ask him to elaborate, not that he could have done so if he’d wanted to. He couldn’t make sense of his dream enough to explain.  What did home even mean? The only home he had and knew was Natalie.

***

 

Natalie smoothed out her skirt as she waited to meet her new boss. After so long being casual and aimless even with Steve, it felt foreign to dress up and to sit in a sleek, metallic office watching the view of the Andes mountains from her chair, her stomach in knots that she somehow knew would disappear once her boss arrived.

It felt like playing a part, least of all because she couldn’t remember what she was supposed to be doing. But rather than feeling like a little girl playing dress-up, she’d been impressed with how calm she was as she slid the black pencil skirt on and slipped into heels she’d purchased only the day before. If she was acting, it was at least a part she knew how to play.

She’d been greeted by a short women with grey hair and dark circles under her eyes. “I’m glad you are finally here,” Julia Arrellano said with a big smile and a strong hug. “Señor Soto is so preoccupied with the International Campaign.  I’m afraid he needs the assistance urgently.”

“I appreciate the opportunity,” Natalie said with sincerity. “My husband and I were both so ill…”

The other woman nodded, tilting her head like she didn’t buy it. “Well. You are here now. Let me show you your desk.”

Natalie followed, trying to ignore the pinch in her heels and instead eyes watching carefully for something mysterious or sinister to add her experiences as an amnesiac.  She followed her guide’s heavy-soled shoes to an office, an unadorned desk just beside the door.

“You will sit here. Here is the calendar for Señor Soto and here is the computer you will be working with. If you need anything let me know. You meet with him shortly. He takes his coffee black, you should have it hot and ready just before he arrives. Your cellphone is in this drawer and you can visit me in Recursos Humanos later. I will walk you over to security for your badge. You can have lunch at your desk”

“His coffee?” Natalie tried to look over Julia’s shoulder toward the glass door.

“Yes, yes. He’s been working quite hard with the Russians so you can imagine that having coffee ready is quite critical.”

Natalie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It was apparent that for whatever job she thought she’d be working with, she was essentially a glorified secretary.

“Julia,” she asked as the other woman was preparing to leave. “I’m sure you were involved in the hiring process. I feel so honored to be here, if you wouldn’t mind telling me…”

“Why you were hired instead of a _Chilena_?” Julia raised an eyebrow. “Well. The modeling helped.”

“Modeling,” Natalie echoed quietly.

“Yes,” Julia nodded, her voice suddenly curt. “Yes, very smart. You included your portfolio in your resume. We have  _ all  _ of your qualifications in your file now.”

Her voice was thick with an innuendo that made Natalie instantly uncomfortable and as though there was something she should apologize for. The idea made her bristle, left her wondering what kind of job she’d signed up for, what kind of modeling her past self had done to be given looks by old ladies before she even sat down.

“Thank you for all of your help, Julia,” she said nicely, ready to be left alone so that she could rummage around in her desk and maybe even slip her shoes off.  Julia smiled, and Natalie decided it was genuine enough, and Natalie thought she might say more when they were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing his throat.

“Buenos dias, Señor Soto,” Natalie watched her colleague beam, nearly swoon, as her boss walked up.

Her boss looked like Old Money. The kind of money that had been in the same family since Spain, for more generations than probably fair. He was easily in his sixties, but if Natalie was asked she knew she’d be wise to say late forties only to validate how hard he was obviously trying. Jet black hair obviously styled so he would not look like his grandfather, skin just short of orange, and face freshly botoxed. Natalie didn't quite know her job description but she could guess that Natalie Roberts of old had been damn smart to send in photographs with a resume. He put his hand out and smiled, all glowing white teeth, and when she put her own out to shake, he pulled her close for a kiss on the cheek. Chilean customs, she knew, and yet when his thumb ran over her wrist she also knew that there had been a method to her old self’s madness because this was exactly the kind of boss who would hire a girl to be his assistant based on modeling portfolios.

“You changed your hair, Señorita Roberts,” he said warmly, again with some measure of innuendo and Natalie raised an eyebrow, mind trying to decide how much she was willing to play along. She thought of Steve, of him burying his hands in her hair as he kissed her, and touched a curl.

“It's Señora,” she emphasized firmly, hoping he would be clear from day one that she was not available. “And I did. Fresh start.”

“Yes, of course!” Soto grinned, winking and all but ignoring her title. “Women always changing their hair. My wife is the same way. Well, I am sure you are ready to get started. Thank you, Señorita Arrellano, for showing Señorita Roberts around.”

Natalie wondered if he was deaf, eyes surveying his ears for a hearing aid and then over to Julia, who was definitely wearing a wedding ring. So. This was her workplace. She held back a sigh and steeled herself with the reminder she still got to go home to Steve at the end of the day.  Julia smiled at Soto and Natalie had to think of her poor toes and the blister forming on her heel to keep from laughing because the old lady was swooning as she left.

“Now, we can get down to the tacks,” her boss looked over at her expectantly, leaning against his office door in such a way that she figured the only way he could be in charge of a company like Roxxon that employed half the town was if he’d come into it somehow through his family. Old money, indeed.

“Just tell me where I can get started,” she said, reaching for the calendar on her desk, certain he was checking her ass for pantylines and convincing her to go back and check her benefits package.

“Dinner. Start with dinner. At my house, of course. I would like to personally make sure you are introduced to our finest Chilean wines…”

Natalie pursed her lips and tried to imagine why she would have been interested in this job, what would keep her from telling Soto to shove his wine up his ass.  The answer, at present, was Steve, was her and Steve and their life together. Not because they needed the money but because this job was a clue to people who knew her before.

“I am sure my husband would find it fascinating, Señor Soto. And I would love to meet your wife, she might be helpful as I need to find a good manicurist.”

He chuckled, old and patronizing, and she waited for him to open his office door. “I will make sure she gives you the best! Does he like cigars?”

Natalie didn't know but she smiled anyway. At least it would be something exciting, she knew her husband was climbing the walls with boredom at home. “I’ll ask him.”

“Wonderful! Even better if he plays cards,” Soto grinned and opened the door. “You ask him. Though I am sure he doesn't have time to do much if he has a beautiful wife like you at home.”

Natalie waited until he disappeared into his office before pressing her face into her hands. She wanted to be laying in bed at home, pressing her bare feet into Steve's legs, not suffering the world's creepiest boss in shoes that she wanted to burn.

“It's a start,” she mumbled. “It's a start.”

***

 

He didn’t want to maul her when she walked in the door, didn’t want to greet her like an overanxious golden retriever hungry to be touched. He did not want to spend the day thinking about how dependent on her he was, as a second brain to experience things with. When she left, he tried not to look forlorn, tried not to convince her to stay ( _ just five more minutes, I’ve just never seen you dressed like this, can you wear that shade of lipstick more often?) _ She’d laughed graciously, hiking up her skirt so that she could sit on his lap and do this little hip roll that made him see double, and whispered in his ear that she’d feel him all day, that she’d only be counting the minutes until she could come home. He thought maybe she wasn’t too excited about leaving either and he’d gripped her ass so tight he was sure she  _ would _ feel it.

Because he didn’t need her. Or at least didn’t need her so desperately that he couldn’t be a grown man incapable of pulling his own weight. Because then there really was no difference between him and…

_ Well _ , he sighed as he brushed his teeth.  _ Well, an ordinary housewife. _

Steve tried. He puttered around, making sure the breakfast dishes were washed. And dried. And stacked neatly where they belonged. And then that there were no bread crumbs on the table or underneath it. And just when he’d swept and wiped down the floorboards, he tossed the broom aside and went into the living room.

Together, and without discussion, they had amassed a mutual corner. A small handful of paperbacks, mystery novels and cookbooks, mostly in Spanish, that Natalie had found in town. A couple of newspapers from the city. And one or two notebooks that Steve had picked up with only a curious look from his wife, (a look made curiouser when he bought crayons though those were easier to explain because he liked having something for the taxi driver’s daughter when she came by).

_ Crayons and paper, I really have lost my mind,  _ he shook his head and grabbed the supplies, heading for the front porch. “Porch” a word used lightly, it was really a stoop, but he didn't think he would be able to keep his marbles if he didn't walk outside and so he didn't care about the technical words.

He was making fat orange and red lines on paper when the taxi driver's wife arrived with bread. She looked him up and down, amused.

When she started talking, he pieced together that she was calling him an artist and he frowned. She was being way too kind for crayon scribbles on the page and it was undoubtedly clear that he was just a bum sitting on the step to his home and in need of some kind of encouragement.

She smirked, using her forearm to push back a piece of hair from her face, and waited for him to open the house so that she could put the bread down and collect payment.

“Thank you,” he said as he handed her the pesos. “It’s good bread. My wife and I fight over the last piece.”

Steve knew she didn’t know a lick of English and that he was half-talking just because it was someone else to talk to but she put her hands on her hips and grinned.

“I know you put a lot of work into it. It’s nice, you know, to have it come everyday,” he explained. She nodded like she understood and when she left, he resumed his spot in the front. It was a nice enough day and he was fiddling with the orange and red and the way the colors blended together to look almost like watercolor, when he saw her walk back up, this time her pig-tailed daughter in tow.

“ _ Como estas _ ?” he asked awkwardly, knowing that wasn’t exactly the right question but not knowing what would be better to say. She smiled and handed him a heavy paper bag, motioning for him to open the door so that she could put the canvas bags slung over her shoulders down. Steve scratched his head and then let her inside. It wasn’t like he had anything else to do.

She went straight for his kitchen, opening cupboards and his throat closed up when she wrinkled her face and clucked her tongue. They had more than one gun down there and the last thing he wanted to do was search for the words to explain them. Before he could open his mouth to say anything, she’d shut the doors and was motioning for her daughter to bring one of the canvas bags over, pulling a metal tray out of one and a series of bowls out of another.

“Can I help you?” he asked, feeling utterly dumbfounded. She grabbed the heavy bag out of his hands wordlessly and pulled out supplies. When he put all the pieces together, he only felt more confused. Flour, spices, eggs, butter.

“ _ Pan _ ,” the little girl said, shaking her head like he was stupid as she put an apron on. Not too far from the truth because Steve spent a good thirty seconds just trying to catch what  _ pan _ meant.

_ “Bread,”  _ the taxi driver announced, not looking up as she opened the flour bag and started sprinkling it all over the countertop. Steve was too curious, shocked, and impressed to say she couldn’t. Not that she’d understand him if he tried and so he shrugged and went back for his notebook.

He had the basic sketch of mother and daughter measuring water and yeast when the taxi driver’s wife called him over.

“ _ Toma _ ,” she handed him an apron and pointed toward the sink so he could dutifully wash his hands.  Steve wanted to laugh and thought about dismissing the idea except that this was something to do, this was a way to occupy his time and he was definitely interested.

He felt like a bull in a China cabinet but there he was, rolling a grainy ball of dough in between them, feeling only a little jealous that the seven year-old with two missing front teeth kneaded her own dough like she’d been doing it for decades. The taxi driver’s wife gave soft instructions and repeated steps until he thought he had the basic idea and when they stopped to put the dough in the oven, he felt… satisfied. Creative.  _ Productive _ .

The taxi driver’s wife gave him a knowing smile and they did it all over again, filling a sheet of round rolls while another sheet baked, the air hot and thick with the smell of flour and bread.

Hours later and their kitchen table full of rolls and he thought maybe he had figured out the basic recipe when his wife appeared in the doorway, a small smile on her lips. Steve wiped his brow with his forearm and the taxi driver’s wife laughed, pulling her apron off and into a ball. Her daughter looked up from her spot on the floor- she’d long since taken over his crayons for her own masterpiece- and gave her own toothy grin.

“This is nice,” Natalie sighed happily, walking over to brush her fingertips over the flour on his cheek.  “This is really nice.”

He handed her a roll and kissed her lips quickly, proud. It  _ was _ nice.  

And almost too good to be true, he thought later as he lay in bed, his wife’s head on his shoulder and exhaled.  Even without memories, they might make something that worked and maybe even worked better.  _ It was a start, _ he acknowledged as he traced circles and other patterns on Natalie’s arm, her skin cool to the touch, and thought about the woman Natalie had said might be his mother.

***

 

_ Shimmering, spinning stars. _

_ It should have made him feel dizzy, the stars. But they were just stars and he was moving in this dream, walking and then jogging through trees and fog. He could see the stars twinkling and that was a comfort. It was late and the kind of dark that was perfect for telling ghost stories, and Steve kept moving through the trees. Tall pine trees that reminded him of… _

_ “Christmas. These would be perfect for Christmas, huh Stevie?” _

_ He was glad, relieved to hear someone else, though when he looked he didn't immediately see a thing. Not that disembodied voices weren't alarming, it  _ was _ a dream. But then he looked back and realized he’d been followed after all by a kid.  Tall, hair darker and blacker because it was night, and Steve thought he knew him. The neighbor? Steve squinted, wondering what he was doing in the middle of the forest. Didn't he see how dangerous it was, how dark as it was?  Steve considered leaving him behind because he was going somewhere and had to keep moving. _

_ As the boy got closer, Steve caught that he was walking with a limp, that one leg of his cargo pants was ripped. Steve had to get to where he was going but he stopped, heart pounding. His leg- did he break it somewhere? Surely he'd need attention for that, if they were ever going to make it out of this forest alive.  Steve took in a deep breath and started walking _ back toward  _ him. The kid- he was all alone. If Steve didn't help him, who would? Something had happened. As they got closer, Steve could make out that he was covered in soot, face streaked black. _

_ Someone had to help him. Steve had to get where he was going but he wasn't going anywhere until he made sure the kid was taken care of. He needed a doctor, urgently. Steve squinted and made out that the kid was smiling. _

_ “We gotta go,” he called out, feeling rushed and anxious. _

_ “You gonna keep the suit?” the kid asked. _

_ It was like a sucker punch to the gut and Steve stopped for a split-second just to take in a needed gulp of air. _

_ No not the kid. Not his neighbor. Same height, same hair maybe. But this was no kid. Not-kid grinned and Steve shivered, started walking faster toward him. _

_ “We've got to go. We've gotta get outta here,” he called out. They were on borrowed time and whatever had happened to his leg, was coming and was only going to come out harder. _

_ “Ain't scared of wolves, Steve,” Not-kid shrugged, rolling his shoulder and Steve saw the glint of the rifle he was carrying. “If we don't stop ‘em, who will?” _

_ Steve shook his head and reached his hand out. Not-kid was injured, looked like a ghost himself and Steve wondered briefly if he was angry, if he was the one Steve was running away from. _

_ “You ever think about going home, Stevie? Find a nice girl and just go home?” _

_ Not-kid walked up and pat him on the back, not worried about the dark, not worried about the wolves and Steve couldn't decide if he was brave or foolish. _

_ “Home,” Steve nodded. “Yeah, let's go. Let's go home.” _

_ The Not-kid seemed to agree and made to limp forward, much to Steve's relief. Short-lived when something (someone?) _ howled _ , a careful warning that made Steve’s entire body clench up. _

_ “Come on,” Steve urged the other man on, moving to lift his arm over Steve's shoulder for support. It was coming. _

_ “Wait,” Not-kid protested, stopping, body heavy as he dug his heels into the ground like a mule. Another howl, closer and louder. Steve considered slapping him, if that would help him to have some sense. _

_“Wait? Can't you hear it?” Steve was frantic, voice shrill. He needed medical help. They needed_ out. _It was up to Steve to get them out._ Not again _, Steve wanted to sob, not stopping to think about what “again” meant._

_ “Someone has to fight the wolves, Steve. Might as well be me.” _

_ Another howl, snapping branches, and Steve turned toward the danger. Wolves could smell fear, he was sure of it, and Steve was sure that he reeked. Not afraid for himself but if he lost him again. _

_ “Go on home, Steve,” his companion said calmly, almost  _ warmly.

_ Steve turned back to look and then he did let out a sob. Not-kid smiled, skin dirty and so pale and his pants all tattered. But not just his pants, his jacket and _ nonononono _ , Steve wept, the wolves were already there weren't they? Steve hadn't been fast enough and Not-kid smiled like an idiot, blood dripping pouring from where his arm would be like a faucet. _

_ “Go home,” he repeated, and it made no sense, how could he not feel…  “As your best friend, I’m telling you. Go home and find a nice girl.” _

_ “I can't. I can't leave you…” _

_ Howls and snarls, and Steve knew his arm would be next. His life and he deserved it, he’d let this happen. It was his fault and he’d rather die than leave Not-kid behind. _

_ “Don't forget to go home.” _

***

 

At first, Natalie thought she was dreaming. She opened her eyes and then shut them back up, her mind foggy and altered by images she couldn’t make sense out of. But then she heard Steve, heard a sharp breath and the squeak of their mattress and she was wide awake.

She turned and watched her husband sleep, watched his eyelids flutter as her eyes adjusted to the dark, his face scrunched up as he dreamed. What a contrast to the man she’d worked alongside all day, she sighed, her thoughts turning to her alleged modeling portfolio. She’d have to visit HR in the morning to check them out, to see if they were worth all of the judgement and wagging eyebrows.

Natalie thought about how stubbornly her boss had refused to acknowledge her marital status, thought about the sudden need to get a framed photo of the two of them for her desk. She’d worried at one point that maybe she was bringing up Steve too much until she’d heard her boss make a joke over the phone about how the woman in the cafe across the street had a body like a coca-cola bottle and then she was grateful for her wedding ring.

It made her laugh and she touched the ring with her thumb, sliding it up and down her ring finger absentmindedly.  _ I’m not married, _ she’d once said and heard him say the same thing. But she was just as married as the taxi driver’s wife or the old lady who’d showed her around the office and maybe happily so. She reached over to brush a piece of hair out of his face when his eyes snapped open, bleary and wild, and she almost said she loved him right then and there.

“Natalie,” he whispered, voice hoarse and she pressed her palm to his face. He scrambled to sit, fast like a spooked animal.

“You okay?” she whispered back and he nodded, grabbing her wrist and pulling it against his lips. He shuddered, told her he was now that she was there. It was not the response she’d expected and she felt his clammy forehead for an imaginary fever, as if that might do anything.

“Bad dream,” he said quietly and she bit her lip. She couldn’t say she remembered any of her own dreams clearly enough to empathize.

“Hold on, I’ll get you some water,” Natalie offered, moving toward the edge. She looked over her shoulder and decided to offer a just-in-case. “If you want to talk.”

“Wait,” he said firmly and pulled her so that she was closer, draped over him practically. Natalie didn’t get the chance to say anything further because his mouth was on hers. “Wait. Don’t go,” he chanted as he kissed her, kissed her lips and her throat and her shoulder.

Natalie’s body responded, wide awake and pressed to him.  She wasn't going to go anywhere. He was hard, hard all over and not just  _ there, _ and she wished she could melt into him. It was a silly, primitive thought, wanting to almost wear him and she tried to refocus her thoughts on his mouth, hot on her skin, and the ache between her legs.

She hooked one leg around him and moved her hand down, anxious to feel him, to feel  _ him _ and full and light all at the same time, but he grabbed her wrist and flipped her so that she was on her back and he was in between her thighs, pressing against her and making her whimper. He looked at her, eyes telling her he wanted to drive this time. Natalie nodded her head  _ yes,  _ and arched her back because she was too impatient to fight and didn’t really care how it happened as long as she got fucked.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, a catch in his throat even as he was pushing her pajama pants down and she hissed, confused. His skin was hot against hers and she drew her legs up to bracket him in.   _ Sorry?  _ Nothing to be sorry about as far as she was concerned so she reached her hand underneath his bottoms to grab at his ass. If he was sorry about foreplay, he could make it up to her later, preferably in the waking hours and after she’d had some coffee. As if making love to him was a chore, she thought as she pushed his pants down with her hands and then her feet. As if feeling him split her wide open was a problem, instead of this weird sensation of relief and more that she couldn’t name if she tried.

He let his weight fall on her just for a moment while he reached the nightstand for a condom and she studied his face, the lines and shadows and emotion that he was shit at hiding. His face prickled against her palm and she let the idea roll around in her mind that he’d be the only one ever. That even if she couldn’t remember anyone else, she’d be content to just let him be the one. That he’d ruined her and it was insane because she could barely remember her own name but there they were, married and together and it would only ever be him, he would be the only and the last and that was fine.

The first push inside took her breath away, as if her body had already forgotten how perfect he felt, and then he was pressing his nose to her throat as he rocked into her. Natalie grabbed his arms, half to keep herself from losing her damned mind, but then he picked up pace, started thrusting harder and deeper, a sigh and then something that sounded like sobs shaking his body against hers. Natalie touched his face, meant to say something because there was something there and it had nothing to do with sex but also maybe everything. Emotions and hurts that needed to be observed and soothed.

“Steve,” she whispered, thumb on his cheekbone and he huffed, looked down like there was something he wasn't quite ready for her to see.  Like he needed more time and she nodded, letting him have it as he made love to her, a hand moving from her neck to her breast possessively.

“I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours,” she repeated, bruised and on fire and so damned close. Steve nodded as he kissed her, like he knew but could hardly believe it, and she pressed her palms flat against the cold wall, bearing down, because she was close but he was closer and maybe needed it- or needed her- more.

“I couldn't stop it, couldn't help him,” he muttered when he was done, catching his breath and staring at the ceiling. “He told me to go…”

Natalie listened as his voice trailed before scooting off the bed so that she could make some tea. He looked haunted and it was unnerving, making her shudder.

 


	13. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to @spanglecap @dresupi and @sunnie91 for their beta-ing. And thank you to anyone still interested in reading this. It's a combination of having a baby and having too many wips and I wish things were different but I won't abandon this. The first section is porny but it is necessary. Also, please know that just like anyone, your comments are treasured. I've been shit about replying to them but I so treasure them.

_Hey Jude, don't make it bad_  
_Take a sad song and make it better_  
_Remember to let her into your heart_  
_Then you can start to make it better_

 _Hey Jude, don't be afraid_  
_ You were made to go out and get her _  
_ The minute you let her under your skin _  
_ Then you begin to make it better _  
_ -The Beatles (but listen to the Wilson Pickett version) _

  


Natalie stood next to her husband outside her boss’s “country home” in a small nearby town of San Felipe, and wished she could read his thoughts.  The air was warm enough finally to show leg in the evening and she knew, without any psychic abilities, that he appreciated the view of her figure in the white lace dress that she’d reluctantly chosen to wear.  She knew, by the way he circled a thumb over the patterns on her hip, that he wasn’t going to be the one to argue against the Chilean preferential for polyester and delicate designs that showed off _las curvas de mujer._

Standing beside him on the doorstep and holding a bottle of Napa Valley wine, she studied the square of his jaw and wished he didn’t look so tense. She understood why he looked tense, at least then, because they were on the outskirts of town at a home that looked like a ranch, even though she couldn’t see cows or hear chickens, and it was going to be another round of lies. Lying about how they’d met or where they were from or why they were in South America, and it weighed on him. It weighed on them both, the likelihood that one day they’d be caught in the lie that they were just lost and wandering something that they whispered about in the middle of the night.

He didn’t talk about his dreams, about the dreams that woke him up and left him panting and wild-eyed and gasping as though drowning, and Natalie tried to give him that space. She tried not to be bothered by the fact that he was dreaming at all when her own sleep was quiet and empty, void like the blank slate that her brain still was. In the morning, she watched the sun peek through the blinds and he pulled her close, his chest hard against her back and his body so hot, and it felt alright that he was quiet.

“What do we say I do?” he asked earlier, tying the loafers she’d found at the shoe store next to the post office. Natalie knew what that meant because she knew it gnawed at him, that he’d come up empty handed. They were there in Chile for her, for the job she’d sought out. She imagined that maybe it had always been her dream to work in South America. That maybe she had missed a corner of the internet that told who they were and it was okay because she was in on an adventure, working in an international company and pursuing a dream, her gorgeous and unattached husband her only real baggage.

“What do you want to do?” she answered, running the tube of lipstick across her lips, tasting the wax when she rubbed them together, her eyes on him in the bathroom mirror. He was quiet, like he didn’t know and it tugged at her heart. She thought he might say something like he’d said before. Art or teaching or maybe to help the taxi driver’s wife with her business, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he walked up behind her and clutched her close.

“No, don’t wrinkle this dress,” she moaned, not that she gave many fucks for her boss, and the stubble of his beard scratched against the nape of her neck and down to the part where her neck and shoulder met. He’d stopped shaving, right after the nightmares started, and she wasn’t sorry to see the change even if he didn’t _talk_ about it. It was like her hair. He was done living in costume.

“Can I just tell your boss that I am your housewife? How do you say that in Spanish?” he mumbled into her skin, his palms flat on her hipbones and pushing her into his erection, and her legs went weak. There was a _want_ that never went away, only stayed quiet for a time, with him and she let herself believe it was something unique to them. Only him. Only Steve, even if one day she remembered and it wasn’t true.

“Ama de casa,” she said, eyes fluttering closed and the lipstick tossed into the sink with a clatter so she could grip the counter and lean her head back.

“Ama. Is that related to amor?” Steve asked this with his hands moving underneath her dress and fingers snapping the elastic of her panties.   _Amor._ Love.  Something else they didn’t talk about.  She stole a look at his eyes, beautiful and blue and honest, and thought it might be possible, that maybe the old Natalie had made the best decision ever in marrying him, in finding him, in loving him.

She could have said she loved him or any number of things but fear took over. Fear of the unknown, a nagging fear of rejection, and maybe even complacency.   _We can’t ruin this dress_ , she’d told him, not that she cared when her panties were trapped ‘round her ankles and he was pushing into her. Love could wait. Soto and work and memories and reasons why could be filed under Later because this was an immediate and very felt need.

“We gotta… stop…” he whimpered into her hair and she looked at her reflection in the mirror, at his, at their flushed faces and the smudge of her lips, and she knew the signal. Stop. Protection. Control because they didn’t know anything. He said ‘stop’ but he kept going, kept up a steady thrust that her greedy body accepted. And she didn’t want to stop, she wanted to feel him, wanted to feel him come, wanted to feel him inside her and to feel _filled_.

“No,” she heard herself protest, her voice a scratchy croak and he met her eyes in the mirror. “No, I need… please, don’t stop.”

“Nat… Natalie,” he cried her name out. “We can’t…”

She pushed back, moving her hips to fuck him back, because she knew it was playing with fire, knew it was rolling the dice. She blamed it on Soto, on the need to be unequivocally clear that that she belonged to her husband.  To feel the evidence of him leaking out of her when Soto winked at her or made a not-so-subtle innuendo. “Wanna feel you. Wanna feel you when we are at this stupid dinner, please.”

He whimpered, presumably at the idea, and she clenched around him, begging him again in any way she could.

“You’re gonna be…” Steve spun her around, pulling out completely and _oh_ , she felt hollow at the loss.  He touched her cheek, other hand on her thigh and gripping so tight. “Filthy.”

And that, Natalie understood, was exactly the point. Filthy and his and she shuddered in disbelief and how far gone she was for him, how much she needed him and how far she was willing to go for him, a perfect stranger but not a stranger at all. “Wanna feel you,” she repeated, desperate.

Whatever she said, it was right because he groaned, burying his hands in her hair to kiss her, his lips and tongue making her so dizzy. She pushed him down so he was sitting on the lid to their toilet, so she could kick off her heels and position herself over him again, her hands pressed against the wall behind him for leverage. Steve looked at her with adoration, with want, and even with disbelief, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard because they felt so _right._

“It’s never enough, I can’t ever get enough,” he said in gasps when she was fully seated and she was rocking, feverish and increase the pressure and friction. His hands grabbed at her dress and when she started to move, forehead hitting his and that one little big moment so fucking close, her body felt tight and electric. Her heart was in her throat and it burned, pleasure and fullness and _oh God right there_.

Steve held her gaze, never looked back, and the intensity and the honesty was almost too much. She knew him. She couldn’t remember him but she knew him, he’d been there when she’d woken up and she must’ve known him before, must’ve loved him before because this was good and made sense. He bucked his hips into her, meeting her and moving with her, when he shut his eyes and his body tensed and she knew he was close.

“Come on,” she urged through gritted teeth and when he pushed up the little black dress she had tried so hard not to ruin as far as it would go, she knew it was all over. The battle with her own judgment lost in the way he buried his face between her breasts, his little moans echoing and competing with panting and slap of skin in the acoustics of their tiny bathroom. 

“We are crazy, this is crazy,” he said. Natalie would have laughed but she was holding onto his shoulders for dear life as she ground down, toes pushing into the tile and a bolt of heavy pleasure rocking through her. Steve groaned, stiffening against her and then he’d reached his own release. And then Natalie did laugh because of the novelty and the feeling of full that spread through from her gut to her toes to her skin like a synaptic wildfire.

Her husband kissed her hairline and they sat, panting and sweaty and quiet in the aftermath, the wreckage being her dress and their common sense. The sense of dread and confusion was there, as she’d anticipated, tangling in her stomach with the need for some kind of proof that things would be okay. Married couples fuck without protection all the time, she told herself, though she hated looking at him as she slid off, as she padded to their bedroom to find something else to wear.

Steve waited for her, hands in pockets as she finished getting ready, as she fixed her lipstick again and tried to remember if she’d always needed him as much as she did, if it was always this desperate and irrational. If he felt what she felt because the confirmation of his love would mitigate their choices.

“Soto is very… weird,” she explained as they stood at the doorstep, really not sure what to expect from dinner but hoping her boss would keep his lecherous glances to himself. Steve nodded, eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out what she was trying to suggest, and she looked ahead. Meeting with outsiders, with her creepy boss and his wife, was normal and they needed all the normal they could find.

What they found, when the door opened, a woman with perfectly coiffed black hair and a warm smile answered the door. Mrs. Soto, Natalie deduced, when the woman greeted them both with a kiss on the cheek and told them that her husband was upstairs looking for his box of cigars.

“Señora Soto, your home is really beautiful,” Steve said and Natalie watched as her boss’s wife touched her throat and grinned as if this was the nicest thing she’d ever heard in her life, telling him he was too kind and that he should call her ‘Carmen’. Not five minutes later and it became clear that Mrs. Soto was about as in love with her husband as she was.

***

Steve sat next to his wife at her boss’s table and wished he knew the exact words in Spanish to tell her boss that he was an asshole. He had an idea, he’d listened to the neighbor girl shout curses at her boyfriend.  Soto, with his orange skin and his squeaky smile, spoke loud and slow and was constantly slapping Steve on the back when he laughed at his own jokes. Which would probably have been somewhat bearable if he wasn’t  also constantly touching Natalie. Touching her shoulder or her bare arm, his eyes sweeping over her shamelessly.  It riled Steve up and he knew Natalie knew that because she kept squeezing his hand, kept leaning into him at the table even when she was in conversation with Soto’s wife.

“ _Dime_ , Steve, what you know about Chile? How you came here? This isn’t comfy like the United States,” Soto said, putting his wine glass down and narrowing his eyes, as if sizing Steve up. Steve held back any expression as best as he could because it was ironic, Soto talking about living in comfort from his nice country home, central heating and housekeepers included.

“Yes, why would you leave the States?” Carmen Soto purred. “We spent last month in Miami and I didn’t want to ever leave.”

“You miss the swimming pools, _Linda_ ,” Soto eyed his wife affectionately and she smiled at Natalie conspiratorially.

“No I miss the pool boys, _mi amor.”_

Natalie squeezed Steve’s knee, her eyes sending him unspoken messages and he worried he might be missing something. A cultural cue or something lost in translation, even though they were speaking enough English and his Spanish was miles better than before. He wondered if they’d even have to answer the awkward question of why they were there, the Sotos engaged in a passive aggressive arms race over something that Steve and Natalie had no business or interest in being privy to.  He looked down at his steak and potatoes, used his roll to sop up some of the sauce, and wondered when they could leave.

“We wanted an adventure,” his wife spoke up and Mrs. Soto’s eyes lit up.

“Ah! Before you have children, wonderful!”

Steve swallowed, throat dry, and he looked Natalie for guidance, watched her smile and nod. And he couldn’t tell if she was pretending or if she was being honest.

“Not while I have you, hopefully,” Soto added and Steve didn’t miss the way he laced his words, the extra meaning, the slight raise of his eyebrow that was just almost a line crossed. Something about Soto left Steve feeling threatened, left him wanting to protect Natalie and he grabbed her hand so that their clasped fingers could be on the table for all to see.

“We’ll cross that bridge if we ever get to it.” Steve knew he sounded a little possessive when he said it but he didn’t care. “Right now, we are just enjoying our time in this wonderful country.”

Soto laughed, loud and filling the room, his wife rolling her eyes.  “God put all the best parts of the world here, of course you want to be here. Did you know that we are the sanctuary for so many wonderful artists and thinkers? People used to come here to escape their own country’s persecution. Some left during the eighties but the ones who stayed…”

“How did the ones who left leave?” Steve asked even though he knew the answer and his wife kicked him while the rest of the table fell into awkward silence.

Soto put his fork down and sat back, a deep breath leaving him. “That is a very serious question. About a very sad time in our country’s history.”

“Apologies,” Steve asserted, making sure to look Soto in the eye.

“You don’t know because you are from a country where things look easy. There was a lot of fear. Neighbors couldn’t trust neighbors because you didn’t know who was really communist and who was willing to lie and say his neighbor was. A lot of people on both sides died.”

Steve looked down. He _didn’t_ know, that felt true, at least logically. The boy in his dreams though, the one missing a goddamn arm, that felt real enough. And he knew what gunpowder smelled like. Hell, his wife could arm and disarm the handgun in their kitchen with her eyes closed. He couldn’t remember if he knew what it was like to live in a dictatorship but he understood not knowing who to trust.

_Go home and find a nice girl, Steve. Someone has to fight the wolves…._

“This is hardly good dinner conversation,” Mrs. Soto laughed weakly, looking over at her guests  as if to give her own apologies. It brought him out of the replay in his mind, something for which he was grateful. Soto continued.

“That’s fine, Carmen. But you know, I always said if that happened again, I’d be on the right side. The side that keeps you alive and not taking the one-way flight to the bottom of the Pacific…”

“Enough,” she hissed, her voice a harsh whisper. “We have guests.”

Soto looked down and nodded quietly to himself and the conversation did change, per his wife’s request, when Natalie asked about the best place to get her nails done. Steve knew Natalie could care less, that she would just as soon do them herself, sitting on the edge of the bed and her chin resting on one knee as she did. It was a nice save for the evening though, lowering the temperature of the room enough. Soto, for his part, quieted down, eyes more on Steve than Natalie, something that Steve felt immediately guilty for.

They ended the evening with Natalie’s cheeks flushed from the wine and the Carmen Soto telling them all about her wonderful trip to Colombia, where she had the best fruit and Soto admitted she came home with the best _tetas._ When Natalie started to cough and he realized it was because she was trying not to laugh, he picked up the cue that they should probably go home.

“I work for a disaster. This is a disaster,” she sighed with a smile when they got into their taxi, relaxing her head onto his shoulder. “What was I thinking?”

Steve thought about the evening, remembered the way she’d said she needed to feel him when she was at dinner, and he shivered at the memory of entering her, feverish and bare. “You don’t have to work there.”

“I know,” she laughed. “But it’s all I have.”

***

“Señora Roberts, it’s wonderful to see you again! How are you? How is your memory?”

Natalie bit the inside of her lip and nodded. She’d gone to visit Doctor Velasco during her lunchbreak, her fingers crossed he’d see her at all, if she could consider him her doctor even if he was the only doctor she knew. She wanted things to look positive, hoped she’d be convincing enough.. _No need to worry, everything is just fine, we are just great._ “I wanted to know if you could write me a prescription for the pill.”

“ _La pildora,_ of course...” Dr. Velasco said to himself, opening a manila file with her name on it. “Señora Roberts, that would not be a problem but…”

“I ran out of my old prescription,” she lied. “But you know, we have to be careful. Don’t want any little feet running around.”

The doctor frowned and looked down at the file again before looking back at her and when he smiled, her instincts told her that he was hoping she wouldn’t be upset when he told her no.

“I can go to another doctor. I just don’t know any other doctors,” Natalie explained, taking a deep breath. “You are just the most convenient and it’s nice to work with a friend…” ( _Lay it on thick, get what you need and get out_ ).

“No, I can write it, Señora. But I don’t quite know why I would if you are already pregnant.”

  
  
  
  



	14. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to work specifically on this fic until it's finished (this fic and the werewolf steve fic I'm writing with @elcapitan_rogers). as always, thank you for supporting me and this fic. Your comments are so appreciated. Thank you also to everyone who helped me or listened to me brainstorm.

_And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack _

_ And you may find yourself in another part of the world _

_ And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile _

_ And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife _

_ And you may ask yourself _

_Well...How did I get here? _

_-Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime _

 

It was dark by the time Clint finally got to the apartment, by the time he finally pushed open the door, soggy shoes and his hair dripping. Nat would kill him for tracking mud across her carpets, he thought as he slipped his shoes off and then his wet socks, until he was barefoot and cold. Her cat peeked its head around the corner of one wall, a tentative meow before it walked up and wrapped itself around his legs. It didn’t care if it got wet, didn’t care that his pants were soaked, didn’t care about anything as long as it got fed.

“Fuck you, Cat,” Clint sighed, making his way to the cupboards. He didn’t really wanna spend more time there, didn’t want to sit at her table anymore or thumb through her mail in case a clue magically turned up. He’d done that. He wasn’t proud of it, the fact that he’d sorted her mail or worse. Wasn’t too proud that he’d spent weekends going through her cupboards or her shelves or all the secret places he could find in case she’d left him something, anything, to go on.

He’d found a lot, but nothing that told him where she was.

A prescription for Ambien, every pill accounted for and dated post-New York, post-Chitauri. More fucking leather jackets than any woman should ever need. Beautiful lace underthings, functional and utilitarian ones, a few pieces of jewelry but nothing he'd seen her wear more than once. Things that were hers, that she'd bought with her own money when she'd earned the freedom to do so.

A shit ton of paperbacks- _The Color Purple, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo-_ all these reminding him very painfully of conversations in which he’d argued that touching and feeling the paper was better and she’d called him old. A handful of DVDs, television shows he hoped she’d gotten around to watching.

SHIELD badges, guns, knives, and memories of why he’d stopped, why he hadn’t pulled the trigger, why he’d brought her home. God, she was fearless, she was so fucking _quick._ He remembered her eyes when he’d lowered his gun, when he’d offered her a different choice. Even though she accepted, she still spent the next six months under observation, lest she kill him. His gut told him she almost did several times.

A few scattered pictures, all other people. Of him, of the team. Postcards, blank on one side. A small teddy bear holding a Texas flag.

“Fuck,” Clint cursed, opening her freezer. The bottle in there, everything on the label in Russian, and he knew it was good. She’d been saving it, probably, and he was a greedy bastard for swiping it. He didn’t want to think she’d never find out because that hurt his heart too much, so he sat on her couch with the bottle and thought of the last time he’d seen her, something Clint couldn’t even remember with clarity.

He was about to open the bottle to see what Nat had been saving when someone knocked at the door. The cat paused and looked up from its bowl and Clint frowned.

“You expecting someone?” he asked, feeling stupid and tired, standing up slowly, his hand moving toward the revolver in his jacket. It had been a long ass day and he didn’t want to know who could possibly be knocking on Natasha’s door after dark, least of all on the day when everyone had decided to give up and stop looking for her.

He was exhausted. A board meeting to decide what to do with two missing employees of the US government who were AWOL was _exhausting,_ almost as exhausting as the suggestion that they should be planning a funeral, that there was only so much the American public would even believe.

On the record, Steve Rogers was on vacation. It had been months but not a year and there was no time frame anyway, for returning. The man deserved a break. That was what the spokesperson, a well-coiffed blonde in an expensive suit, told any media outlets that cared. Captain Rogers had earned some time off and deserved privacy and respect. No further explanations or questions were answered, not that this kept pundits from arguing about the absurdity that the taxpayers’ dollars were being squandered sending old war heroes to Tahiti. It could have blown up and become a bigger deal than it was, which seemed lucky though Clint knew operatives were likely squashing questions before they were asked.

The official answer was that Captain America was on vacation. It was news for a weekend and then it wasn’t news anymore.

No one asked about Natasha Romanoff. This was just as well, she wasn’t the celebrity, it wasn’t her face plastered on t-shirts after the battle in New York. There were a few suggestions that she was deep undercover, that she was gone coincidentally. A hint once that maybe she’d gone back to Russia, switched sides again, that maybe she’d taken Captain Rogers with her, either willing or not. There was nothing in the chatter to suggest this was anything more than a couple of diplomats sweating about their jobs and recalling the eighties and Reagan and Soviet terror.

They weren’t in Russia. She hadn’t gone back. He’d _gone_ to Russia, back to ground zero even to see if she’d maybe gotten nostalgic, maybe she’d gone looking for her childhood again. Clint had checked, more than once, losing a chunk of skin on his knee in the process. An old friend by the name of Sergey sent his regards.

But something had to be done. There had to be some marker of some sort for Steve Rogers’ absence, Steve who was never missing, who would never just pick up and leave. This pissed Wilson off, of course, and Clint admired his vehemence.  Wilson sat at the boardroom table across from Fury, the same table as Clint, as Stark and Banner, as Agent Hill, whose arms stayed folded and eyebrow raised the entire time. No one knew what to do but Wilson looked downright angry, fists balled up and _no, he’s not dead, stop talking like he’s dead._ Clint couldn’t look at him, he felt as angry too, doubly so for Natasha, whose location and whereabouts seemed less important or worrisome.

“We are telling the press Captain Rogers is on sabbatical. Retirement,” Fury said, hands gripping the back of his chair as he told Clint and Wilson, as he told all of them. “But the trail is cold….”

“It’s not cold,” Clint argued, even though it was, even though he himself had looked everywhere, had followed every possible lead he had. “I still have some leads…”

“You are free to keep looking on your on time, using your own resources, Agent Barton,” Fury shut his eye like this was all so exhausting. They’d gone over this, of course, and Clint knew Fury had bought him time and money long past protocol.

“So what does this mean? You are giving up?” Wilson sputtered and Clint finally did look over at him with sad eyes because that was exactly what Fury meant.

“To the press, he is away on vacation. There is no evidence to suggest they want to be found.”

“Fuck you,” Wilson stood up and moved so that his face was inches from Fury’s. Fury didn’t even bat an eye, even though Clint _knew_ he cared, _knew_ this was a front. “They are both out there and I’m not giving up. You can give up all you fucking want but I’m not giving up.”

He left before Fury could tell him to stand down, before Clint could grab his shoulder and say, "listen, no one is gonna stop looking.”

Even if they were. On the record, Captain America was on a beach somewhere and off the record, the powers that be could just not justify the expense of searching for someone anymore, even if that person was MIA or worse.

He peeked through the peephole and inhaled, opening the door. Bobbi, her hair pinned up and her long black coat covering what looked like mission gear. She’d just gotten off work then. He wanted to think she’d come straight over. He opened the door with a sigh, his arms hurting, his eyes heavy.

“Come on,” she said quietly, with authority, as she led him back to the couch. She pulled his wet pants off and laid them across the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He watched numbly as the drips created puddles in Nat’s floor. 

“How’d you find me?” he asked and she rolled her eyes even as she was pulling her hair down and finding a place for her shoes and her coat. She looked warm then and when she pushed him onto the couch and curled up next to him, she _was_ warm.

“She’s my friend too, Clint. I know where she lives,” she said quietly and he grunted, opening the vodka finally. Of course they were friends. He wanted to laugh at the idea of two exes talking about him, drinking wine and comparing notes. On a normal day, he might think it was funny. He thought about how careful Nat was, how secretive. On a normal day, he’d hug her for being so brave with Bobbi.

“She’s got this cat,” he whispered, his voice cracking a little because it hurt. “I don’t know the name. I suppose I should take it home with me.”

Bobbi reached for the bottle, stealing a quick swig and grimacing at the burn. “If you want.”

What he wanted was for her to tell him that he was being a baby, that there was no sense moving the cat because Natasha was coming home and how dare he think otherwise. That he’d better get up off his ass and keep looking because she was out there, because she’d move every stone to find him if the tables were turned.

“Where are they, Bobbi?” He felt so desperate then and Bobbi furrowed her brow and looked down, swallowing hard but not answering him. Nat was a lot of things to him and bottom-line, someone who knew him better than anyone, who he could count on to be there. Someone he loved and admired and _missed._ “Do we just give up?"

Bobbi moved so that she was straddling his hips, so that she could look him in the eye. “We’ll find them. What do you know?”

Clint leaned his head back on the couch and sighed. He knew that the day they left, Steve had started the day at the gym, had sent a few emails but nothing extraordinary. He’d met Nat in the lobby and they’d both been recorded getting in a cab for the airport. From there, the trail went cold. Neither had been seen with luggage, though he assumed Nat had arranged things, and there was no record of either of them, or any known aliases, on any flight manifests. They’d disappeared into thin air.

“Why would they leave?” Bobbi asked. “No SHIELD assignments…”

“That I know of.” Clint has asked Fury, had talked to Hill, had talked to everyone. “So it was one of Nat’s side jobs.”

“Or they left together,” she arched an eyebrow. It was her prevailing theory and he’d tried telling her it was bullshit a thousand times. They’d never seemed any more than colleagues. Maybe friends. Steve would never just leave, not even for a romantic weekend. Steve, who was so committed to looking for Barnes with every chance he got. There was just no way. And Clint had looked through that as a possibility, had grilled Wilson in case Steve had admitted something. And why, even if they were together, would they be so secretive? It didn’t make sense.

“Barnes? Maybe Nat knew something or someone?”

The cat, which had climbed up beside them and had been licking at Clint’s damp skin, purred like it was in agreement.

***

_He knew he was dreaming when he woke up at the kitchen table, smooth formica and neatly crocheted placemats. They’d been bleached white, intricate patterns that he traced with his fingertips. When he blinked, someone had put down an empty plate, his consciousness filled with the sounds of cupboards banging and someone humming Bing Crosby._

_“You remember the time we stole your ma’s gravy boat so we could collect river samples?”_

_Steve knew before he looked over, though it didn’t make it hurt any different. The kid again, smirky smart-ass grin and a steady trickle of blood where his arm should be. He’d had this dream before and knew there was a script he was supposed to follow. He did what he could to steady his heart, to remind himself that hollering about Not-kid’s missing arm wasn’t gonna do a lick of good because the other man didn’t seem notice or care one way or the other._

_“Fish,” he said calmly. “We wanted to catch fish.” He couldn’t remember much more than what he remembered from the last time he’d dreamed, the last time Not-kid had told him about stealing china for fruitless fishing expeditions in the East River._

_“Between your ma and mine, I think all of Flatbush knew we’d gotten nothing out of it except a good spanking…”_

_Flashes of a brunette with finger curls, a heavy bosom, and three girls clinging to her legs and Steve laughed. “Your ma used a wooden spoon.”_

_The kid grinned. “Yeah she did. Spare the rod, spoil the child, Stevie. Your ma was too nice.”_

_“Says the asshole walkin’ round with one arm,” Steve answered dryly, wishing he had all the pieces. He never saw his own mother, not clearly, though he knew from the dreams that she’d call out that they had canned peaches for dessert, that the boys better wash up the dishes or she’d box their ears. But he’d started remembering his one-armed companion’s mother and sisters, enough that he thought they were probably real. He wondered if his companion was a ghost, if this was a message he was supposed to remember and deliver to his family one day._

_“We never got these fancy fucking rolls in real life, Steve,” Not-kid laughed and reached for a bread basket in the middle of the table, laughing as he took a bite of a dinner roll. “It’s your dream so I’m not complainin’...”_

_Steve wanted to ask him who he was or what he wanted Steve to do. He felt haunted and guilty for feeling haunted, like he was being insensitive, so he kept quiet and nodded his head._

_“Fish on Fridays just like everybody else,” the boy shrugged and swallowed his bite. “Though I can’t believe you don’t remember my ma’s blueberry cobbler.”_

_Steve wished he could remember it. “Yeah, well. I seem to have forgotten most things.”_

_“Your brain’s like Swiss cheese? I know all about that one, you’re talking to the expert,” the other guy tossed him a roll. Steve throat closed up and he put the roll on his plate. In the beginning, he’d tried waking up, tried willing his body to wake up and pull out because he didn’t want to see, just wanted to be with Natalie, be held in Natalie’s arms. There was a reason he’d forgotten, if this was what his life was like before. He’d learned to go with the flow of the dream in the end._

_“Go home, Stevie…” his companion leaned back and sighed, his face tired._

_“I am home,” Steve defended. “I’ve got Natalie…”_

_“Have a coupla’ kids and a dog.” Still chewing like nothing else mattered. “Figure one of us should get the dream…”_

_And then he heard the woman in the other room, same as always, bemoaning that he was as slow as molasses and reminding him about dinner. He looked over and watched as the Not-kid mouthed the words to the familiar script, rolling his eyes but grinning anyway._

_“I picked up an extra shift from Agnes so I won’t be home,” she called out. “I have enough for James, you can ask him to join you for company as long as you two do your homework.”_

_Steve’s heart skipped a beat. James. That was new. And familiar and real…_

_“I know you…” James. On the tip of his tongue. James._

_Not-kid smirked. “Go home, Stevie.”_

_***_

“James...”

The sound of his own voice saying it, hoarse and panicked, woke him and he reached to his side on instinct. Even before he could register that he was awake, present, that the dream was over, he was feeling for her. His chest seized and he couldn’t untangle where she fit in that, how much the panic was residuals from the dream, the sound of his mother and James still vivid…

_(Ghosts. He supposed they were like ghosts.)_

Natalie was always there, though, kissing his lips and telling him it was all going to be alright. Her side of the bed was warm still, the sheets rumpled and he let himself gasp for air, his hand over his heart as if that would help steady it. James had said to go home. Was that what he was doing? Going home? He listened for the neighbors, mercifully quiet, and the neighborhood’s stray dogs. They always went off at night, always howling and yapping when the rest of the town had gone to sleep and he knew that because it was unchanging and predictable, sounds he could count on.

The sounds of home.

He heard her, coughing from the bathroom, and sat up. She was part of that, part of home. Her sounds and smells and the way she was there and they were fumbling around together. Was that what his subconscious was saying? Fragments of Before telling him that a small yellow house in Chile was where he belonged? She coughed again and he heard the sound of the tap. She’d be back soon, curled into the bed with her bare feet tucked against his calves, and they might fall asleep to the dogs together. She might ask him why he was awake, if he wanted to talk about it, and her face might flash jealousy or confusion because she wasn’t sharing the same dreams, but in the end, he’d feel less alone, like she was there and wanted to be there.

When she did pad back to bed, he waited for her, watched as she sat on the edge of the bed with her head down and her shoulders up. He loved her shoulders. Loved kissing the tops of them, loved feeling her biceps and loved when she wrapped them around his neck. _Go find a nice girl._ Well, he had her. There she was, quiet like she didn’t want to wake him, so he reached out for her again.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice less hoarse now and she nodded,letting him pull her close, letting him cover her with the blankets. Natalie felt so small sometimes, something he found he loved until he really thought about it. She was small and light but she wasn’t fragile, especially the more she relaxed into whatever they were. She was quiet and quick, had snuck up behind him a good half-dozen times. And she was stubborn, planting two feet down and not moving (not that they’d had many disagreements). She was small but she was everywhere, pervasive. When he covered her, his arms over her chest and all of her pressed into him, he thought he could protect her and shield her, a little peek of the _real_ Stefan Roberts, of the _real_ them.

“No,” she whispered, pulling him out of his thoughts, her voice hollow. “Actually, no, I’m not okay.”

Steve tightened his grip around her and inhaled, remembering his dream and the ghosts. He wasn’t sure he was okay either, not that he’d tell her. She laced fingers through his, playing with his wedding band the way he knew she did when she was thinking too hard.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?” _Is it me? Is it something I can fix?_ His heart skipped a little.

“Um…” her voice cracked. “No...”

Steve remembered how hard it had been, how hard it still was, for both of them. Strangers. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten quietly upset about it, about all that didn’t fit no matter how much they faked it.  There wasn’t much he could do about that, not when he also didn’t know, so he stayed quiet.

“Do you ever think we should leave?” she murmured. “Run away? Or maybe you feel like running away from me? The girl next door says her parents have a house on the coast. She told me it’s only about an hour away....”

“Whoa,” Steve interrupted. “You wanna go away? You want me to go away?”

She sighed then. “I think about it. If we don’t know why we are here, there’s no reason to keep us here.”

The skin of her shoulder was soft and cool and god, he loved the way it tasted, loved the high he felt when she filled his senses like that. She shivered and he kissed her shoulder again. “Natalie,” he said as calmly as he could, as plainly as he could. “You are my reason for being here. Right here.”

Natalie didn’t respond, even though the natural response should have been to tell him that he was her reason right back, and he slid his hand up her thigh under her nightgown so that he could draw little circles over her hipbone. This was home, this was where he belonged.

“You wanna go to the beach? We can go away,” he whispered. _I’m not leaving you, don’t leave me._ “Maybe it would be helpful.”

“Therapeutic,” she agreed.

“We have a picnic on the beach. Sandwiches and that fruit salad you like. People watch and drink those sour rum drinks…”

Natalie huffed out a laugh. “Maybe…”

“When do you want to go? Right now? Tomorrow?” he moved his hand between her thighs. She’d be getting up for work soon, he thought distantly, and they’d start the routine all over again of ghosting through their own lives. The taxi driver’s wife was teaching him how to make _alluyas_ , little rolls that he and Natalie had started using at just about every meal.  The taxi driver’s wife would say that her secret was love, if she admitted to a secret at all, and Steve could see how that was true but he knew she used real lard, that she’d probably been baking bread since she was as old as her daughter. _Every baker has a different signature_ , she told him as she pressed the prongs of a fork into the edges of a biscuit. _You’ll need to find yours_. Steve had a few ideas even if he thought he was hardly a baker…

“I saw Doctor Velasco,” she said, right as his fingers had started combing the wires of her pubic hair, small acts of need and possession. He waited for her to move against him like she always did or to say something else about their doctor and whatever was going on. She stayed quiet and still. It reminded him of the beginning, when they didn’t talk because they didn’t know what to say and he pulled back.

“Are you okay?” he asked and she shook her head.

“I’m pregnant,” she answered, still calm, still back to him so that he couldn’t see if she was lying or not, couldn’t see if her green eyes were open or closed or tearful or happy.

His first thought was that she was lying, if only because the memory of waking up and being told she was his wife when everything in his body said it wasn’t true, was still vivid. This isn’t right. He’d thought this over and over for so long, until he’d stopped thinking it and started believing. Until it had felt true.

_Go home, find a nice girl, have a coupla kids…_

Steve pulled away until he was laying flat on his back and she was still curled into herself beside him, and he hated that. He hated himself for the way he stared at the ceiling, his chest squeezing and his temples throbbing, hated himself for wondering if he was still dreaming and when he would finally wake up. He was silent for too long, not soothing her or ecstatic for her like she deserved. She’d made herself small again and it dawned on him that if it was true, she was terrified.

“How?” he asked and she scoffed, signaling quick to him how dumb that question sounded out loud. “I mean... how long?”

“Just. It only takes the once.” The one time, before the dinner party. Or maybe after, they’d been careless that day. He’d been careless, needing her too much, his ego so fragile at the idea of her boss looking at her that way, of losing her.

“Are you…?” He had so many questions. Was she sick? Did she want it? Did Natalie Roberts want children? Did Stefan? He was a coward, he decided, because he couldn’t ask her anything fully, couldn’t wrap his arms around her. As if they were strangers all over again. She didn’t answer, got up instead and fumbled for a pair of pants- his sweatpants, nearly falling off her- and walked away, the bathroom door clicking shut and cutting him off before he could hurt her more.

Pregnant.

Steve stood outside the bathroom door and listened, his hand on the frame because he didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to force his way in. What kind of dumb luck...this meant a baby. Their baby. Something to cement them together whether they liked it or not, no matter how much they remembered or forgot.

He listened for her but didn’t hear her, not her crying, not anything else, and he walked away, pacing through the house instead.

It was not the worst case scenario but it was pretty awful nonetheless. Steve felt like shit for the despair, for the jumble of thoughts running through his mind, for the way he stood at the kitchen sink and imagined how they could possibly raise a child when they were housing a small arsenal, their secrets were already responsibility enough.

He heard her, her soft footsteps across the cold floor as she went back to their room, and turned back. Maybe because of the memory of some kid named James bleeding out, of his mother calling out to him from another room. Or maybe it was that his eyes had wandered over to the picture that he’d found in his passport, the one where he’d been looking over at her with such obvious love, the one they’d put on the fridge as a touchpoint and proof they were both real.

It could have also been his internal sense of guilt, his sense that whoever he was, he was supposed to protect her. His birth story so-to-speak of carrying her into the hospital, the way he held her when she cried because she couldn’t remember anything of before.

Or maybe it was the way she felt, the way she made him feel. Alive. Right.

He crawled into bed beside her and pulled her back into his arms, his lips back on their favorite spot, and she sighed, resigned perhaps to her own battles.

“We can do this,” he whispered into her skin. “We can do this together.”

“A couple of amnesiacs,” she laughed. “Raising a child.”

“It’s our fresh start,” he said, cupping her still flat stomach. Natalie sniffed, the first sign of emotion he’d seen, and he pushed her shoulder back so that she faced him, her eyes red-rimmed and wide and her lip between her teeth.

“You’re crying,” he touched her cheek with one of his thumbs. “Natalie, don’t cry.”

“I’m not…” she furrowed her brow, even as she swallowed and a tear slid down. “I just…don’t know if this is who I am. Someone’s mother?”

“You are now,” Steve shrugged. “I guess that makes me someone’s father.” It sounded like a lie, like make-believe. But how much had he already begun to believe, how much had already moved from what felt like a lie to a truth he felt in his bones. The sounds of dogs outside gave way to birds and he caught a peek of sunlight. Morning and he felt like time was running out, like if he didn’t say the right thing, they’d end up right back at the beginning.

He moved down so that he could face her belly, lifting up her shirt, so he could kiss it and write messages with his fingertips. _Hi,_ he wrote on her skin, even though the concept of life- of a life they’d created- felt still faraway. When he snuck a glance up, he caught her smiling even through pained eyes. He traced a heart around her belly button, feeling it more than he’d ever felt it before.

“I guess we are a family now,” she said and it rang true, deep in his heart.

“I guess we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And you may tell yourself_   
>  _This is not my beautiful house!_   
>  _And you may tell yourself_   
>  _This is not my beautiful wife!_


	15. start again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art!!! (put it all on my grave, it means so much!!)  
> [This one by @akurotori (Which I have legit saved to put on my own custom tervis cup if they'll let me)](http://akurotori.tumblr.com/post/153238807996/romanogers-fluffathon-2-i-look-at-you-and-see)  
> [This one from @myloveiamthespeedofsound](http://myloveiamthespeedofsound.tumblr.com/post/153652700921/if-we-both-have-amnesia-and-all-we-have-are-our)  
> [This one by @stevenatlove on insta](https://www.instagram.com/p/BP89s72FNPk/)  
> [Mine, made with this chapter in mind](http://heyfrenchfreudiana.tumblr.com/post/156546510509/sure-natalie-shrugged-and-pulled-herself-onto)

_“If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.”_  
_― Mark Twain_

 _Oh the things that you say_  
_Is it life or_  
_Just to play my worries away_  
_You're all the things I've got to remember_  
_You're shying away_  
_I'll be coming for you anyway_  
_-A-Ha, Take On Me (listen to the Aqualung cover)_

 

The first three months or so of pregnancy were a limbo. Things had changed, dramatically, and yet neither of them were really sure how to proceed around the changes. It took almost the entire first trimester for either of them to actually say the word “baby”, both of them stopping short, expressions pained and awkward.

 

_(“Will it hurt the…” he asked, his face flushed for the good reason of her hand wrapped around his dick, her breath in hot pants against his ear as she leaned into him. She laughed and kissed him, her tongue sweeping his mouth like she was hungry, her hand winding him up, the pressure already there and so good._

_“Doubt it,” she teased, twisting her wrist on the uptake, her mouth wet on his chin. “I want it, Steve. Need you…”_

_That last part came out as a moan, and he knew she did, the hormones making her want more. She’d come home and crashed into him, peeling her shirt off before they made two steps back, and he thought maybe pregnancy was the best thing God had ever invented. When she moved onto her back and hiked up her skirt, he blushed even in spite of himself, his eyes zeroing in on the beauty of her swollen labia and the way she writhed. He wanted it too, wanted her, when did he not?)_

 

_(“What does it feel like?”_

_He asked her once when she thought he was lost in his drawing, his eyes still focused on the paper even though she saw that the pencil he’d been using wasn't moving. She was curled up on the opposite side of the couch, a copy of “La Casa de Espiritus” on her lap when he asked, and she furrowed her brows at the question._

_“What does what feel like…”_

_“The...being...pregnant,” he said carefully. She shut her book and looked his way, thinking carefully herself. It didn’t feel like anything yet. An abstract idea that didn’t feel real, save for her sudden sensitivity to the nag champa the neighbors insisted on burning until she’d sent Steve over to talk to them._

_“It feels,” she started and scrunched up her face. He put his pencil down and moved closer, and she thought about what it almost felt like. A promise, something that they’d done together, something they’d done because of how much she thought they might love each other.)_

 

Natalie didn’t feel sick as much as tired, her brain shutting down late in the afternoon, and her breath caught in her throat when she thought about why, her heart pounding when she pressed a gentle hand against her pelvis. Sometimes it was too much. Too much worry about what might happen or how things would change. She’d already gone in circles wondering if her past self would be disappointed in the pregnancy, if she’d somehow betrayed what some unknown part of her wanted or didn’t want. She wondered sometimes, when she lay down and closed her eyes, if she was even deserving. Who was Natalie? What if she hated kids? What if she was the worst kind of person to even be near kids? She had this fantasy that one day she’d remember, that she’d wake up and find all of the choices that her post-amnesia self was making and be horrified.

Doctor Velasco, who had agreed to see them as long as she was low risk, said that she looked normal and that they must be terribly excited.

“Sure,” Natalie shrugged and pulled herself onto the hospital bed next to the monitor. She looked over at Steve, his face in the frown that said he was deep in thought. Thoughts, she guessed, about the pregnancy, about how unlikely it felt. They didn’t talk about that. Didn’t talk about how pregnancies lead to very real babies, humans with very real destinies and hearts. She didn’t talk to him because she was afraid, afraid of the unknown and afraid to make a mistake, afraid perhaps to wreck the foundation they had. So she watched what she ate, took vitamins, and pretended that things were as ambiguous as they’d always been. She went to work and they took long walks and made love at night to the sounds of their neighbors’ latest rock playlist. He stayed home and baked and made friends as he helped the taxi driver’s wife deliver her goods. She watched carefully when he was lost in thought, his jaw locked after a bad dream and flashes of his history. And she wondered how much of what he saw when he slept was connected to her.

He didn’t tell her but she knew what he was thinking, knew why he was quiet about it. It was so vague, the idea that there was a baby growing inside her. Not real, not real like his mouth on her collarbone as she straddled him, not real like the feel of him deep inside her or the way he tasted, the way he gave a tired laugh when she tickled his rib after they’d finished or the way he groaned and stretched, scratching at his ass as he stumbled to the bathroom to clean up the evidence of all that were sure of and good at.

They didn’t talk about it and she was satisfied with pretending it wasn’t happening.

Until she’d pushed up her blouse and unbuttoned her jeans so that the doctor could spread cold clear gel across her pelvis and slide the monitor over her skin. It sounded like radio static and then the doctor moved the doppler over and it sounded human. Hard, deliberate thumps of a racing heartbeat. It was too fast and she squeezed her husband’s hand when she heard it even though Velasco promised that fast was normal. Natalie looked up at Steve and felt the shift because the heartbeat was the proof. It was there and it was real, whether they spoke out loud about it or not.

Human.

A little flicker on the screen and a heartbeat.

 _Their_ human.

Reality.

***

Everyone reacted to the news differently, though it seemed the news was best-received by the friends they’d amassed without realizing. The neighbor-girl squealed and promised to throw the “wildest baby shower ever.” The taxi-driver’s wife began bringing fruit and polenta and cheese “for the baby.”  By the time Natalie popped, she began bringing small knitting projects along with her bread in addition to the food. Little white knitted sweaters and caps. Mittens for the cold, though by the time Natalie could no longer see her feet, she was too hot to want to even touch the carefully crafted garments.

Soto didn’t even realize she was pregnant until she was ready to go on maternity leave, when he stopped on the way to the office and asked her with squinted eyes if she’d gained weight.

“I’m pregnant, actually,” she smiled, rubbing her hands over her belly, over her son. His eyes opened wide at the news and Natalie watched as he flustered through a congratulations before disappearing into his office, the door slamming shut. _Was he… angry with her?_ Natalie clicked through some emails on her computer and decided she didn’t care. The Russians were visiting in two days, returning to seal the deal after negotiations that had started shortly before Natalie even started her job. She hoped meeting them in person after months of emails and phone calls, would be her swan song. The plan, a secret one between her and Steve, was for them to move somewhere else after the baby was born. A plan whispered as he put his palms on her stomach in the middle of the night and she forgot all about everything she couldn’t remember.

“Senorita Roberts,” Soto called and she hoisted herself up, grabbing a pad and paper in case he had something for her to note down. In the beginning, he’d assumed she knew them because she spoke Russian, as if that meant she was intimate with the billions of people who lived there. 

“Senorita Roberts,” he said her name again as she entered the office, his eyes on his tablet and his face stern. She thought of all the preparations and finishing touches for their guests and catalogued all of the things she thought he might ask of her, and when he looked up finally, it was with a smile. “So. Pregnant…”

“Yes, Sir,” she nodded, shifting just slightly in her shoes. They were shitty shoes, another point of contention at home because she was really too pregnant for heels. She agreed but she hated letting Steve win so she suffered, telling herself she wasn't too pregnant to be professional. Her feet ached for the choice.

“Boy? Girl?” he asked and she beamed, in spite of herself. There wasn’t a name yet for the child and truth be told, she really couldn’t care less what the gender was, but just that very morning Steve had palmed her belly and told her that he’d had a vision, a memory of going to baseball games as a child. Those were precious and exciting but he held back, she knew, not telling her everything about what he remembered, his brow furrowed when he mentioned it like baseball wasn’t a good thing. Natalie squeezed his hand when he got that way, letting him retreat into his thoughts, her own mind on whether or not she’d ever shared that with him. She pretended that she did, that they’d gone to stadiums together, and even maybe that some part of her childhood was connected to baseball too. His memories could be hers too, she decided, until she was proven otherwise.

“Boy.”

“That’s good, very good,” Soto said, sitting back in his chair, eyeing her carefully. “Senorita Roberts, what are your plans when the child is born? When will you be leaving me?”

Natalie swallowed and straightened her shoulders, not sure whether or not he was leading her down yet another trap of inappropriate conversation or not. He’d always been too preoccupied with her, always wanting to know about her marriage and her life before Chile, as if fishing for something that she should have an answer to and never satisfied with what she gave, as if he knew that every memory she had was a lie she’d made up. Leaving her? As if he’d ever been more to her than a creepy boss that made her cringe?

“It’s my last few weeks, actually.” She was firm, decidedly. As soon as the Russians were gone, per her discussions with Julia. As soon as they left, she could train someone to come in, maybe even to replace her. The baby shifted, a quick thump up against her ribcage and she let out just a little bit of air. She felt like a balloon, like a big, heavy balloon except that it felt like she had a bowling ball between her legs and not air, pushing down against her and stretching her skin tight. A bowling ball she wasn’t sure she wanted but one she felt possessive for, her breath catching in her throat still and even though she’d had months to get used to the idea.  She wasn’t alone and everything she experienced, was experienced by the baby also.

Soto quietly picked up a manila folder from the bottom of a stack of papers on his desk and met her eyes, his own grey and tired, and it took Natalie off guard. Instead of looking at her like he was undressing her, he looked worn and more fully every year he’d lived.  Natalie waited for him to say something else, her mind and her own body yearning to go home already, yearning for whatever comfort she could find.  She lost herself in wishing she was somewhere else, wished he’d hurry the fuck up with whatever stupid request he had for her in that folder. 

“I’d like for you to make sure the accommodations are up to par,” Soto said and she nodded because she’d already done that, reserving the best rooms at the newest hotel downtown. She’d spoken to the hotel director herself, even paying extra for concierge services beyond what anyone in town would normally ask for.

“They’ve requested we prepare the following address.” He slid the folder across the desk, his hand stuck atop like it was glued down, like he wasn’t sure he wanted her to take it. She held back an impatient sigh, still not entirely certain exactly what Roxxon was even negotiating with the Russians and any further demands on their behalf just exhausted her further .

“Of course,” Natalie said politely as she lifted up the folder, opening it up quickly because memory or not, this was her job and she was damned good at it. Being good at even being a secretary meant everything when she didn’t have much else, and the idea that maybe Soto had held back was almost offensive. The folder was mostly empty, a few pencil scratches on yellow lined paper, a map and an address outside of town, not far from Soto’s own home. Soto watched her, his breath bated and she scanned the words quickly. Spanish.

_Arañita roja_

_Soldado de plomo_

_Amenaza Neutralizada_

Words that meant nothing to her, save that she couldn’t figure out why Soto was scribbling nursery rhymes in the notes. Red Spider, Toy Soldier. If they were code words for a project, it wasn’t one she knew about and she looked up, her mind on the best way to ask him for clarification. Soto raised one eyebrow and cocked his head before reaching for the chest of cigars on his desk. 

“It’s terribly important, this union with Chilean and Russian business,” he explained, opening the box and pulling a cigar out. “Terribly important for our country and theirs. I’d like to think I’m doing my part to show that we are progressive. Chile is the richest country in South America right now, the most stable. But we are wary of outsiders- it was the U.S. government that paid for Pinochet, after all…”

Natalie clutched the folder and bit the inside of her cheek. The sooner he finished, the sooner she could leave and she was ready to be dismissed so that she could eat her lunch and stare at the view of the mountains from the office window. It was warm enough outside for ice cream and sandals and fireworks at night, (in fact every night of September it seemed, a nod to the birth of the country she was told), and she tried to write in her memory how the snowcaps were melting, slowly drying up and disappearing. The baby nudged her hand and she stared instead at the folder, as if the minutes not eating were a disruption to a routine already learned in utero, and she smiled to herself, tapping back the spot pushed in apology.

“Many say that Roxxon is corrupt, that money is the bottom line. This… agreement with Russia. It is about the people. Cleaner energy...the collaboration with their scientists. Our board agrees, this is not about communism or free markets or capitalism or…”

She only closed her eyes briefly, the rush of something… hitting her. Dizziness except more like a small electric current, like she’d been plugged in for just a moment and her head felt heavy. It happened quickly, not even a full two seconds before she could hear and focus on Soto again, could parse what he was saying.

“....Imagine the influence we’d have, internationally. We could do a lot of good for South America, instead of constantly feeding off the world’s leftovers.”

He paused his speech and leaned back in his chair, his smile kind but still chilling, a reminder that she was an outsider. She didn't belong. She would never fully understand what he was saying, never get whatever he had experienced or why it was all so urgent. She wished she could remember then, could remember and feel all of the suffering of her past life because then she could try to empathize. She was an American but she couldn't _remember_ even what that felt like, couldn't relate to the pride and the patriotism for her own country, couldn't remember _what the everloving fuck had brought her to Chile and away from home, why were they there, why the arsenal and the wounds and...why, why, why._

“Senorita?”

Soto’s voice cut through the heaviness of words and uncertainty then, through the panic, and she gave him a small shrug. Her heart was racing and the sound of her breath, rushed, flooded her ears. Natalie touched her abdomen, the spot next to her navel, her instincts shouting at her as she tried to steady herself.

“Fine,” she said, the word coming out shaky at the end. “I understand the importance of this project.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he didn't care, giving her the opportunity to excuse herself. It was a mercy and when she collapsed into her desk chair, she felt nothing but gratitude as she looked through her drawer for the container of sliced apples she'd kept to keep her even during breaks. Sugar and food, she thought, frustrated with herself for no reason other than that pregnancy apparently meant nearly losing her mind out of hunger.

She should have excused herself and gone home. Her shaky hand hovered over the office phone and she considered ringing up the doctor, because dizziness in the third trimester was a warning sign. She told herself, as she swallowed chunks of apple, that she was just hungry and it wasn't worth alerting the doctor and panicking Steve.

There was a portion of pride there too, she admitted. And stubbornness, that was there too. She was not on leave yet, she still had a job to do and she didn't want to let Soto down, even if she was growing to hate his face and the sound of his breath and the way he said her name, never acknowledging Steve. There was a reason she was there, even if she didn't know it, and she didn't want to stop until the very last minute. She wanted to be useful, not just pregnant. She’d made the mistake of saying that out loud once, had spent an entire weekend bickering with Steve about it because he’d asked her to stay home.  “As if growing a human wasn't work enough,” he’d argued and she remembered scoffing, remembered walking away so she didn’t scream because it _wasn’t_ enough sometimes.

She wanted answers and even these many months later, she still believed she would find them at Roxxon.

Steve was overreacting when he suggested she go on leave early and she chastised herself for overreacting right then at her desk. It would be hypocritical to leave early, she decided. The baby was fine, the pregnancy was going well, and a trip to check out Soto’s house would take all of five minutes. Instead of calling the doctor, she reached for the phone and called the taxi driver. If she finished fast enough, she’d be home before dark and leaning against Steve while he made dinner.

It took longer than she would have liked, the drive out. Past the town and down the two-laned highway lined tall with trees and fences that did a poor job of keeping cows in and people out. Past the bus stops and churches and then just country. The taxi driver asked her if she had the right address and shook his head when she showed him the map, but then he turned on talk radio and she blocked everything out, resting her forehead on the cool window.

It was wrong. Natalie knew it was wrong when the taxi stopped. She opened the door and asked the taxi driver to wait for her so that she could check out the little brown house, the correct address at least according to the map. It looked abandoned, the front window boarded up and weeds overgrown along the walls. The Russians were coming to assist with some development. Efficient energy or something that she wasn’t that interested in but she thought as she stepped onto a dirt path, heels wobbling, that she probably should have paid more attention. She heard the sound of grass and leaves breaking, caught sight of a stray dog that didn’t even give her a second glance, and knew that it was wrong.

But it _was_ the right address. That was what kept her moving, was the reason she walked carefully along the perimeter, her hands on hips. She was getting hot and wanted to take her bra off, wanted desperately then to just leave it all. Accelerate the exit plan she had with Steve and get out of dodge. She walked to the door and her belly tightened. Braxton Hicks. Natalie exhaled, puffing her cheeks out as she did so, and knocked on the door.  Those were normal, according to Doctor Velasco. A sign that her body was doing what it should, going away with water and rest. Soon, she sighed, checking the doorknob to see if it was unlocked. Whatever mess Soto had gotten her into, she’d be in and out.

She coughed when she opened the door, the air thick with dust and heavy like it hadn’t been aired out in years. Mostly bare, she noted as her shoes hit the wood floors, her eyes sweeping over the entry room. A sagging sofa that didn’t look safe to sit on, the green cushions greying with dirt. Spiderwebs everywhere that she ignored as she walked toward the next room, a kitchen. It wasn’t right and she knew she should leave as soon as she walked in.

There was nothing normal about her or Steve.  Nothing normal or right about waking up and not knowing anything except for things she didn’t need to know at all. The only thing she had, she thought as she curved her palm over the top of her belly, was the baby. She thought maybe she had Steve too but she couldn’t count on it, the fear that niggled in the back of her mind that he’d leave when he woke up and remembered. She’d tried and then she’d given up trying to remember but she still searched for clues. Who they were, how they’d lost it all.

She should have turned back but she didn’t, that foolish voice in her mind saying she had to look just right around the corner before giving up because she never knew when a memory would come back. She gasped, her heart in her throat when she got to the kitchen and saw, just where anyone might put a table, the chairs.

“What the fuck?” she whispered, walking back until she was pressed against a hot refrigerator that looked about fifty years old. “What the fuck?”

Two chairs and a series of metal tables, exactly like the dentist except these were filthy and almost certainly didn’t belong. Two chairs, the look of them terrifying and ominous, leather cuffs on the arms on the white one. She tried to think of a plausible explanation as she stepped close, her eyes darting all over as she lost track of where she even was. _It wasn't right, these weren't ‘accommodations’._ There was a stain on the brown chair, right where the headrest was, and she reached out with her pointer and ring finger to swipe at it even though she knew (she knew, she _knew_ ) exactly what it was. Her first thought when she scraped across the brown, flecks going under her fingernail, was that she was working for the devil. That she had been the whole time, that maybe Roxxon was… or Soto? Or the Russians,she couldn’t decide, the thought of Soto being even worse than he already was, the thought that maybe she was an accomplice, this was why she knew how to kill even before she knew her own name…

_“One two, buckle my shoe…”_

She looked around, the voice hitting her like the current of electricity she’d felt when she’d opened the file in her hands at the office. No one there and she shook her head, not realizing at first that it was her first break, that this might be a memory. She looked for the speaker and then looked for ghosts, for the first time wondering if she’d been there before.

 _“Хожу-брожу, матрешку держу,”_ someone rasped, a voice she couldn’t recognize. She shivered and closed her eyes, trying to connect the dots. She knew the words, knew what was next, could hear someone complete the rest of the rhyme that ended up as a chant. Mixed up. Russian, Spanish, English, screams and cries and the relentless and cold voice.

_“Three four, shut the door.”_

She didn’t mean to. Did it without thinking. On autopilot, she sat in the brown chair, the one without straps. Those were on the floor, she saw them as she leaned back, her heart slowing down. Brown leather straps tossed on the floor by the cupboards. How they got there, she didn’t know, her hands moving to the arms naturally. As if this was a dance she knew by heart.

“ _Разберу напополам, детям в руки дам.”_

She closed her eyes. It was a nursery rhyme about a Russian doll torn apart piece by piece and put back together again, she knew it but she no longer worried about _how_ she knew it.

“ _Nine, ten, start again.”_  The baby kicked her but she ignored it, feeling it far away like it was her body but not, not anymore. She focused on the voice and only distantly aware that she wasn’t paying attention because she knew that voice after all.

It was hers.

She closed her eyes.

***

Even swollen and off-balance, she was a sight for sore eyes. Steve grabbed a roll real quick as he greeted her at the door, anticipating hungry and tired, her new normal. He’d been playing checkers with a very precocious seven-year old, both of them sitting cross-legged on the floor while the taxi driver’s wife hummed in his kitchen, when he heard the taxi outside. The daughter, a little shit, took this opportunity to double-jump two of his pieces, crowning her own piece while he looked away. Steve gave her his most-practiced fatherly look before grabbing the bread for his wife.  He’d been told by both the bread lady and the girl next door that he should rub Natalie’s feet and make her tea, advice he took seriously, this unspoken tension in his heart that this was an opportunity that he couldn’t afford to mess up.

He opened the door before she got to it, reaching out for her the same way he always did. The routine they’d picked up and stuck to religiously. Pull her tight and kiss her hard. She looked so tired, the circles under her eyes darker than they’d been that morning, and all he wanted was to carry her to bed and care for her. His eyes moved to her belly, to his son, and he beamed like a fool. Everything about her felt like a miracle. It was a miracle that with all they’d lost, they still had each other. A miracle that as fucked up as his brain was, he’d been given this life. She didn’t know him, didn’t know anything and she was there, carrying his child. It felt so normal. So very much like something maybe they’d had planned all along and he tried to ignore his dreams about James and the blood and the wolves, because dreams didn’t mean shit against the reality of his body curled around hers at night and his son’s heartbeat against his palm.

“Hey,” he said as he reached for her wrist. “I thought I’d make this chicken and rice....”

He stopped cold when she grabbed his forearm, fast like a whip, her grip tight and he let go of her wrist quick. She was sending out a signal, one he’d never seen, but when he looked into her eyes, he thought he could unscramble it. Her eyes were dark and when she looked at him, he stepped back, his chest tightening. Natalie, his wife, her green eyes glassy and black and her lips parted, everything in her controlled.

“Move,” she ordered, her voice just as firm, hardened. Robotic.

“What….?” He started to ask what the hell was going on, but she squeezed his arm tighter, the strength incredible. Even then, he would have finished his sentence but for the sight of the taxi driver’s daughter as she walked up, brow furrowed and her playful grin fading fast. Children are damned observant. Children are sponges. He knew that, knew she would pick up that something was wrong and call her mother. His heart started hammering and he looked over at Natalie, frozen and looking _past_ him, like she was seeing something on the damned door. Like she suddenly couldn’t look at him.

He stepped back and she marched, heels clicking on their floor, to their bedroom. The door slammed shut and he shuddered.

“Que paso?” the little girl asked, tentatively, and he smiled as bravely as he could.

“Cansada,” he said quickly. She was just tired. The baby and the very job he was already asking her daily to leave. Natalie was stubborn, convinced there was a reason to stay, convinced it was the key to remembering. And she was probably right, it was probably important to be the secretary to an orange-skinned chauvinist who stared at his wife’s ass all day. But Steve wasn't sure he even wanted to remember anymore, his own mind flush with plenty of nightmares to suggest whatever he had going before was worth forgetting. “Let's get out of here,” he'd begged, pulling her awkwardly onto his lap, their child a heavy barrier between them. “We have all we need, why are we here?”

“I… it's all I have,” she'd told him, her eyes pleading right back. And it was the same core argument all over again. Because her job wasn't all she had. She had him and she had the baby and there was no _need_ . He wanted her to admit how much she needed him. That _they_ were enough. Things he couldn't say clearly right back.

He cocked his ear and listened. No sounds coming from their room, which was fine until he started cataloging every worst case scenario. That she was ill, that something was wrong with the baby. The taxi driver’s wife appeared, leaning against the doorframe that led to the kitchen with a tea towel in her hands and he shrugged.

He wasn’t sure what to do. To give Natalie time to calm down from whatever had riled her up or to chase her and make sure she was okay. The taxi driver’s wife met his eyes and called her daughter into the kitchen, nodding for him to go and he readily obeyed.

“Natalie,” he said quietly, knocking and then turning the doorknob. “Natalie, what’s going on?”

She was sitting on the floor, legs crossed, focused and he was sure that she hadn’t even heard him, her face expressionless. He couldn't even say her name, his throat closed around the words as he watched her sit, surrounded by the pieces to the gun they kept underneath the mattress.

“What the hell…” he whispered, to himself more than her because she was entranced. Not Natalie, all of a sudden, but someone in Natalie’s body, the way she pulled the pieces of the gun apart mechanical and cold. It was chilling, the mother of his child disassembling the gun and then putting it back together the way she had all those months ago, her belly surrounded by metal, her skirt hiked up and her shoes neatly beside her. Like a ritual. Like something she’d done before. Like a memory.

“Nat…” he murmured, taking a step toward her, bending down on one knee. Did she even hear him? As she screwed on pieces, her eyes never on him. “Nat, what happened…”

He reached out for her again, for her chin to guide her eyes up to his. She met his eyes and he knew before she said anything that this was all wrong, that something was not right. He heard the click of the hammer and even then, even when she was raising the gun so that it was aimed right at his chest, he was trying to figure out _why._

“Natalie,” he said her name one more time, searching her face for traces of _Natalie, his wife._  His mind raced around all of the ways to take her down. Were there bullets? He couldn’t remember but they had people in the kitchen and people next door. People that would be hurt if that gun went off, even if he was the one shot. He stared at his wife, carefully debating what to do because he would take the bullet if that was what she wanted. He quickly wondered if it was the plan all along, if she had been playing him the whole time. Her eyes looked so dead then and he stifled the thought of betrayal because she was his wife.

She was his wife.

“Natalie,” he said as calmly as he could, moving his hand to the gun, moving it gently aside. She was still his wife and he searched her again because he refused to let go. He thought maybe he saw something, a flicker of emotion across her face and it was enough. “Natalie, I love you…”

He hoped it didn’t sound like he was begging, even if maybe he was. He didn’t plan to say those words, they’d just come out. There was no time to regret them, and he ended up saying them again as he used his other hand to pull the gun away,  tossing it to the side. Everything was quiet, the only sound her breath and his heart, and his heart sank that she still wouldn’t look at him.

“Хожу-брожу,матрешку держу,” she said in a whisper, words he didn’t understand. “Разберу напополам, детям в руки дам…”

He didn’t want to shake her but he did, not that it did any good because she let him rattle her around like a rag doll. ( _Natalie, look at me, dammit. Natalie, please…)_ She continued chanting, her eyes so so dead, even after he slapped her face to get her to react, the sound of his hand on her cheek bringing tears to his eyes and he hated himself instantly for it. She sounded so lost, so far away, as if she wasn’t even there for the pain, as if the red on her cheek didn’t register, and he didn’t know what else to do so he lifted her up and moved toward the bathroom.

“One, two, buckle my shoe…” she murmured as he carried her into their bathtub, turning the water on ice cold, praying it would shock her, that she’d come back to him.

***

_She was drowning. Every time she opened her mouth to scream, the water stole her voice and she choked on it, the roar of the waves crashing in her ears as she flailed. She was lost and drowning and panic seized her. Her choices were to fight or to sink and it was looking like the latter was gonna win out, that truth only making her struggle harder._

_“She goes first, you see.” She was aware of darkness, as if the darkness itself was speaking and then she looked around, searching for a weak spot, a plan, a way out. “She’s weaker, Test Subject Number One.”_

_She tried to move and found she was frozen, no longer able to flail, no longer able to do much more than drown, her mind screaming. Someone screaming. She was screaming, the currents of electricity from her head to her toes too much…_

_“Nat, I’m going to get us out of here…”_

_Steve. Yes, she thought weakly. I know you will._

_“Nat, I love you, it’s going to be okay. Nat…”_

_***_

“Nat, I love you. It’s going to be okay. Please come back…”

The words cut through her like a knife and she gasped, taking in air and water. _Steve._ She shivered, so cold and her eyes focused on what she could see and hear and feel. Steve. Always Steve, because they were partners together and she remembered…

She shivered as her mind grabbed onto flashes of memory, wisps that faded away like fog. She was...she _was…_

She was wet and cold, she realized, in the shower. Their shower. The water cascaded down, hitting her face, and she shut her mouth because she kept taking in water. She felt heavy and when she looked down, at her clothes, at her body, she started to shake. The lump in her throat burned and she focused on her belly, fat and bloated. The baby. She’d forgotten...

“Natalie,” he said and she frowned when she looked up at him because he was right there with her, just as clothed and soaked, drips coming down his beard and eyelashes. He looked _frightened_ , and she studied that because it reminded her of something that she had lost. He grabbed her shaking hands in his and she tried to push that lump down because if she cried, she might lose the memory and she’d had it, right there, right in the forefront of her mind’s eye.

She looked down and remembered. _Their_ baby, the one that still didn’t have a name because they were both too scared to suggest anything. He wiggled inside her and she couldn’t help the sound that came out of her mouth, a pained moan. She remembered but she knew it wasn’t complete.

This was their baby. Hers and Steve’s. Steve, her husband. She remembered waking up in the hospital, remembered every day since then. He was all she had and she moaned again for the loss of memory. She’d been at the office, eating apples and staring at the snow caps, Soto’s file on her desk. And then it was blank, the wisps of memory gone.

“Steve.” She put her hand to her mouth, her wedding ring in her periphery, and took in gasps of air because she couldn’t remember coming home and if she was losing time, something might have happened, something could be wrong. She blinked away the tears and the water from the shower and covered her stomach with her hands, her eyes open wide and searching him for an explanation. “The baby… is he…”

He shook his head, cupped her face in his hands, and she resisted looking at first, afraid he’d tell her something had happened. He repeated her name, thumbs caressing her cheek and she flinched because one side was sore, and he said he was sorry which made her even more confused.

“It’s going to be okay,” he promised and she nodded, believing him. “We’ll call the doctor later but it’s going to be okay, Natalie.” She pressed his hand right above her belly button, if only to show good faith that she hadn’t done something to hurt him. He’d been kneeling until the first kick, the first proof of life, and then he was moving, sloshing around in his wet clothes until his legs were bracketing her in, his features unmistakable. Relief.

“I’m sorry,” she said and he pulled her close so that her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands guarding their son so carefully as he did so. “I can’t remember…”

He quieted her with his lips on hers. That she remembered, that was safe and she cried as his lips did their best to soothe her. He told her he loved her and she clutched his wet shirt because even though that was familiar and she knew it was true, she was sure she was hearing it for the first time.

  


***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone still here, thank you <3
> 
>  
> 
> Side note: @spanglecap, who is my beta and sounding board for plot, mentioned the other day how meaningful that robot brainwashed nat goes home to steve... ;__;


	16. One

_I was made for loving you_  
_Even though we may be hopeless hearts just passing through_  
_Every bone screaming (I don't know what we should do)_  
_All I know is, darling, I was made for loving you_

  
_-"I was made for loving you"_ _, Tori Kelly ft. Ed Sheeran_

_***_

Natalie Roberts was nothing if not a master con artist.

Steve decided this as he leaned into the door frame and watched her work her magic on Doctor Velasco, who furrowed his brow as she manipulated him into saying that she was fine. She gave her best smile, her eyes sparkling as she rubbed her belly and told him everything he wanted to hear.

He muffled his sigh, his chest tight and heart still pounding because she was _not_ fine. Not that he could change her mind, not that they hadn’t quietly argued about it while waiting for the doctor to arrive, her brow furrowed and arms crossed as if mirroring his own posture and expression. She wasn’t going to give in. He knew it because she never backed down. And yet he found himself fighting her anyway. It had been hours since her episode, since she’d walked into their house like a goddamned zombie. Steve’s stomach was still in knots, the memory of her eyes cold and lifeless as she aimed the gun at him, the memory of her weeping in his arms in the shower after. Neither of them knew what to make of it, the fact that she’d remembered something even for the briefest of moments and then lost it all. Too much stress, too much strain, he said as firmly as he could, and she needed to leave work immediately. Natalie laughed when he said it, her eyes rolling as always, even though she knew he was right.

He was fucking scared, if he was honest. Scared for her and the baby and scared because for a second, she’d been someone else. _Not_ Natalie, but someone colder; a machine who didn’t care, didn’t love, just reacted. It felt so wrong, so impossible to match with who he knew her to be and it opened up all of the old wounds and questions he was trying to shake off just so that he could move forward.

Steve watched as the doctor listened, a stethoscope near his wife’s belly button, confirming that at least the baby was alright. This was the lead that his wife needed, catching that confirmation so skillfully. Steve watched, unable to stop shaking his head, as the gears in her mind turned. As she formulated her defense. _If the baby was fine, there was no need to rush. She had a work commitment, the Russians, and everyone counted on her._

“They aren’t staying long, I can stop at the end of the week,” she promised, her voice full of emotion and Steve’s heart tugged even as his blood boiled. This was important to her, he knew that, he’d heard her say it to him before. The possibility that work might help her remember, that work made her feel useful and normal. “They won’t even be here that long,” she pressed and Steve sighed quietly, torn between his better instincts and his own gullibility. He recognized with chagrin that she was conning him into acceptance as much as the doctor.

"The baby needs just a little more time to grow,” the doctor said gently. “At this point, he’d be premature and that is just too risky. I’m afraid, Señora, that I’d have to ask you to rest as soon as they leave…”

“At the end of the week, absolutely,” Natalie agreed quickly, her eyes darting to Steve’s. Steve shook his head, unable to hide his disappointment, a _goddammit, Natalie_ under his breath. The doctor stood up straight then and reminded her to drink lots of water, to count how many times their son kicked and to go to the hospital at anything that didn’t feel right.

“A mother’s intuition is often sharper than anything a doctor knows,” Doctor Velasco said with a smile. Something about that made Steve feel better, strangely. He knew that his Natalie would know, would say something or do something if she was suspicious the baby was in danger. He thought about the way she whispered to her stomach when she didn’t think he was listening, her smile soft and tender. Or the way she gently folded the knitted sweaters the taxi driver’s wife sometimes brought over, her face peaceful as if she was even looking forward to motherhood.

He was scared for her but he did trust her. He trusted her and he loved her, loved everything he knew of her that made her Natalie. Loved her laugh, her little mannerisms, the way she challenged everything and never backed down from a fight. The way she took up space, the way she was a part of him and all he knew, even more than he knew himself. He knew her, as this Natalie, and knew he could trust her.

***

“I don’t like this,” he said the next morning as she sat on the edge of bed, her eyes shut as she rolled her neck and breathed through their son kicking her ribs.

“I know,” she answered and he moved so that he could rub at her shoulders. She moaned softly at his touch. He figured it was the least he could do, seeing as he had a role to play in why she was in the state she was in.

“Compromise?” she sighed, looking back at him. She looked tired but hopeful and he gave in with a quick kiss to her shoulder before reaching around to feel for the little foot poking from in her stomach almost supernaturally.

“Come for me later today. I can leave early, as soon as I make sure they have arrived safely and are settled. I can get Julia to help…”

“Alright,” Steve answered and she leaned backwards to kiss him, her lips grateful. They kissed quietly, both still sleepy, until she pulled apart, her eyes on the clock at her bedside, the reminder that she still had work to do. “Alright, yeah. I can come by…”

He trailed off, watching as she pushed herself up and padded to the closet, pulling down a loose-fitting dress for the day. Watching her get ready was always one of his favorite things to do, he’d sketched it dozens of times already. In the beginning, it had been erotic watching her walk around in lacy underwear, mesmerized while she did her makeup or as she slid on heels and put earrings on. But as she grew, as her body swelled, her breasts fuller and his son more and more present, Steve couldn’t take his eyes away because he loved her.

The eroticism was still there, of course. He still wanted her, wanted to kiss every inch, wanted to run his palms over every part of her in worship. Sex was getting trickier, finding positions that worked. They’d resorted mostly to him taking her from behind ultimately, something he hated only because much as he loved her ass, loved kissing her spine, he also loved seeing her face, flushed with eyes scrunched tight and his name falling from her lips.

He loved watching her because he loved her, because she was home. The only thing he could honestly and truly remember.

“What?” she asked with a smirk, and he realized he had been staring. She was shaking a bottle of red nail polish and he watched, part charmed and part turned on by the sight of the purple panties she’d chosen, the ones that fell short below her belly. _Good God._

“Nothing,” he said as innocently as he could, knowing she knew when he was holding back. She smirked again and sat beside him, stretching and twisting so that she could reach around her stomach for her toes. “Here, let me,” he offered, taking the bottle from her and she sighed, a smile tugging on her lips.

“I am so big.”

Steve patted his lap and she moved her feet to rest over his thighs, his thumbs stroking her ankles as he rolled his eyes. “You are perfect.”

“Perfectly huge,” she contested and he bent down to kiss the tops of her feet, unable to resist.

“Perfectly perfect,” he said, unscrewing the bottle of polish. It smelled strong, chemical, and he hoped the fumes weren’t affecting the baby, not that he’d say it out loud because he knew she’d say he was being a little ridiculous. Instead, he admired the arch of her feet, the pale skin, the softness of her heels. She was holding her breath, eyes wide open and watching him and he tried in vain not to respond physically, his focus instead on the gentle swipes of red across each toenail of her right foot. He couldn’t keep her out of work, wasn’t really doing anything to provide for her, not unless feeding her and doing odd jobs with the neighbor or the taxi driver’s wife counted, and it felt like if he just cared for her this way, it would nag on him less that he was shirking his duties.

“Thanks,” she murmured when he’d finished both feet. Steve nodded, putting the nail polish on the table by the bed so that he could blow gently across the wet paint. She made a little sound at that and it was his turn to smirk because he’d been married to her long enough to know when she was getting turned on. It was only because he was feeling needy, like he wanted to make sure she knew how much he loved her and worried for her, for them, that he walked the fingers of one hand up her thigh to her panties, his lips still blowing air over her toes.

“Sneaky,” she murmured, voice heavy as she spread her legs open for him and he arched an eyebrow, lips still pursed, teasing her. Steve wondered if he held back and didn't touch her, if he could manipulate her into staying.

Of course, _not_ touching her was impossible. He realized as soon as the thought crossed his mind, how foolish he would be to try. His fingers stroked the inside of her thigh and he watched as her eyes hooded, her breathing faster just at the innuendo. She reached down, intertwining her fingers with his and this time when he sighed, it was at the view of her. The sight of her curves, the slopes of her heavy breasts and the softness of her belly. If she could read his mind, he knew she’d scoff and say he was looking at her from a less-than-flattering angle. She’d say he couldn't possibly find her sexy, not when she felt like a dough ball, not when she was itchy and gassy and round.

She didn't see what he saw. She didn't see the power, the femininity and grace. Natalie missed how the fullness of her body stirred his heart and he was sure she wouldn't ever understand the way he _lusted_ for her. She was art and home and a miracle. It was futile to say anything else, not when loving all of her was fact.

“You are perfect,” he repeated and she nodded, her eyes watery like she maybe believed him. Her free hand caressed her stomach. Steve made sure to kiss her there, not even to communicate to his son, though he knew she’d mistake the gesture. No, this kiss and the ones after along the dark line that had emerged from her navel to her pelvis, was meant for her.

“I'm going to be late,” she said, eyes on him like she wasn't gonna stop him, her free hand moving to comb through his hair.

“Good,” he murmured, pressing his nose against the fabric of her panties. He sniffed against her like a dog, like an addict, wondering briefly if it had always been that way. _It must have been,_ he figured. _He must have always been so consumed by her. His body remembered what he couldn't._

“When the baby comes, you won't want me like this anymore,” she sighed and he shook his head because he would always want her.

She shivered against his open-mouthed kisses, bucking her hips up every now and then, her body rolling with imaginary electricity. He loved that, loved watching her fall apart, loved that he was the only one who did that. She said she couldn't remember anyone else and he believed her, his heart so full that he might be the only one. It was all so visceral, the idea that he might be the first man to take her and love her and know her in this way. She was carrying his son. Even if he wasn't her first lover, he sometimes caught himself repeating _yeah, but I won._

***

_“Dammit,” Steve cursed under his breath, kneeling beside the planks of dark cherry wood that were supposed to make a crib. Supposed to, if he could only get that damned screw to go in and not have the whole thing looking lopsided. The plan was to finish the thing before she came home from work, the centerpiece to a haphazard nursery of sorts in the corner of their bedroom. Really haphazard, because he’d cleared away the basket of clothes and pushed the dressers to another wall entirely. A blank piece of paper with the hurried label “baby” marked where he wanted to go._

_He’d gotten the inspiration the night before. Natalie had woken up in the middle of the night, deep sighs and the bed creaking just a bit as she shifted around. When he opened his eyes and turned to see her massaging a calf, his shirt stretched over her belly and the seam teasing along her upper thigh, and reached out for her. God, he loved her._

_She gave him a brave smile but he knew she was uncomfortable. If she wasn’t hot, the baby was moving, he’d seen her out of breath for both. And when he walked his fingers over to her stomach, he quietly considered how big she had gotten. It was impossible to believe she’d grow much bigger._

_“The neighbor wants us to name the baby ‘Matias’,” she said, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “She also said ‘Renato’, because it means born again.”_

_Steve looked over her belly and twisted his mouth. “No to Renato, it doesn’t fit our last name.” She shrugged again and he wondered how they’d have a name if they didn’t even have a place to put the baby. They’d have to get a drawer and line it with small blankets if they didn’t get moving on that one soon._

_“Antonio…” Natalie offered and he moved so that she could curl against him, her head on his shoulder and a pillow between her knees. She mentioned a few more before drifting back off, leaving Steve to thoughts of his son. The taxi driver’s wife would know where to get a crib, would know what they were missing. His thoughts drifted to his dreams instead._

_The crib was delivered the following morning and he was probably overzealous in getting started, the screwdriver slicing roughly into his hand not fifteen minutes in. Steve tossed the tool aside so that he could stomp into the bathroom and rinse his hand off, drips of red blood painting the sink and reminding him of watercolors._

_He heard a knock at the door before he could do much so he wrapped his hand quickly in a towel and moved on. The taxi driver’s daughter, toothy grin and a bag of marshmallows in one hand. She’d become an almost friend, not that they really could talk much, and he let her in, watching as she bounced toward the box of checkers._

_“I’m kind of… ocupado,” he motioned toward the room. The little girl nodded, opening the game anyway, so he sat down with a sigh._

_When the girl gestured to his hand, he tried explaining but ended up taking off the towel._

_His hand, smooth and unmarked, didn’t interest her and she continued setting up the game._

_Steve had seen the wound. Hell, there was dried up blood in the bathroom sink. It didn’t make sense and he considered talking to Doctor Velasco, not even sure what he’d say._

_He ended up not telling anyone. Not the doctor. Not Natalie. Instead, he finished the crib and rubbed the phantom wound. It was if it had been erased. And then the idea of being erased hit Steve so deeply that he got dizzy, burying his face in Natalie’s neck because he was real and people weren’t… erased._

_***_

_“Whatcha painting?” she asked, entering his space quietly. She was wearing this flimsy white sundress that looked more like a nightgown to him, even though she insisted otherwise, and he watched as she played with the strings of ribbon at the bust. He put down his paintbrush and lifted up the small canvas. A cow jumping over the moon. Natalie grinned and reached out, nearly touching the wet paint._

_“It’s cute,” she murmured, leaning into him. She smelled like lavender and the coconut scented lotion she’d started slathering over her skin every day. Steve closed his eyes, committing it to memory._

_“For the wall behind the crib,” he explained, his body all but melting into the way she laced her arms around his waist, her cheek pressed against his shoulder._

_“You should paint me.” She smirked and he was sure she meant it as a joke until he handed her his sketchbook and pages of her across the months of post-amnesia change. Half-finished sketches of her hands, a quick line art of her silhouette, a few while she slept. He watched her trace his drawings quietly, his heart in his throat because his sketchbooks had become a diary of his life, an account in case his memories slipped through his fingers ever again._

_She didn’t say anything, didn’t have to, because her actions were telling him all he had to know as she took the canvas out of his hand in order to lean into him. Because her lips were a story, imprinting unspoken words on his mouth as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled tight. He tugged on the little ribbon gently, not yet desperate, and when she led him to their bed, he tumbled, forgetting about any other obligations._

_They had one book about babies, a graphic Spanish guide that they'd both poured over and read to each other in bits and pieces, fascinated. Facts and lists and reminders to buy bottles and bibs. A chapter on safety, making them both laugh because nothing was said of what to do about the dagger in her makeup drawer or the handgun amongst all of the sock balls that his wife insisted on making when she did laundry._

_Sketches of women breastfeeding, their eyes closed and a small blissful smile on their faces. Round babies with chubby hands reaching up. At the idea of it he drew in a sharp breath, feelings mixed. Natalie nursing an infant. Their infant. Her breasts, full and devoted to feeding someone. Their someone._

_He thought of those sketches when he lifted the flimsy dress over her head, stifling the jealousy that when the baby came she would no longer just be his. He focused instead on the way she breathed when he cupped her breast, on the story unfolding as he touched her, as he curled his body against hers._

***

The taxi driver parked outside her office building and turned back to look at Steve. He looked nervous, as if there was something he needed to say, needed to tell Steve before he got out and made his way toward his wife.  Steve struggled, unsure as he held onto the bills in his wallet, as he considered what he knew and the urgency in his gut that said he needed to stop and listen.

“How did we find you?” Steve asked without thought, studying the driver, studying a man who he had eaten with and whose own daughter came over to his house for board games and homework help. The taxi driver swallowed and looked down and Steve studied him, as if for the first time. A man who looked as if life and work had aged him as much as his wife, a father who kept a pink Hello Kitty charm dangling from his rearview mirror, right with a cedarwood rosary to keep him and his passengers safe.

The taxi driver looked down.  “When I was four, I went to live with my grandmother. She used to wear her white hair in a long braid and I remember she used to make this lemon pie that was so good, it made you forget your problems. This was the pie she served the police when she asked them to find my parents.”

He paused then, a few seconds enough for Steve’s mind to start working, for him to begin assembling all the pieces of why he was still there, listening instead of getting out of the car to meet his wife.

“They told my grandmother that my mother and father must have gone to Cuba, to study communism. But Mother was just a housewife, she didn't care for politics, according to grandmother. And Father had just started working at the school, he wouldn't…”

The driver’s voice trembled a little but he grabbed the steering wheel, hard as if it could transfer the solidity through him. Steve imagined this man, a friend, losing his parents, imagined a fat-cheeked preschooler and an old lady serving lemon pie at the police station.

“She lit a candle each night, so they knew they could come home. Made me promise to never go out after dark. Said there were wolves…”

“Wolves,” Steve repeated, mind snagging over the word. _Someone has to fight the wolves, Steve._ James had told him that once, in a dream. _Wolves._ He remembered the howling, could smell the blood that poured... _like Niagara Falls, huh, Stevie? Looks worse than it is, don't get yourself worked up over it._

The taxi driver nodded and Steve wondered if he was agreeing with Steve or just happy for the chance to speak. “I was hired by you. By you and your wife. I took you here the first night…”

Steve’s heart sunk and he closed his eyes, letting the words echo. _I took you here…_

 _“_ You knew us?” Steve asked, moving back, his hand on the door handle as he processed it.

“I didn't want to...my family depends on me. On this taxi. I never should have picked you up. I knew it would be trouble, I knew when I saw your wife at the airport.” His Spanish got faster, and Steve had the fleeting idea he would miss the words. “I didn't know when I left you at the hospital. I didn't know if she was alive or…”

“Dead,” Steve finished.   _Muerto. Dead or alive and tossed at the hospital with no word, no explanation.  A nameless driver who knew and never told…_ Steve’s head spun and he remembered those first minutes of consciousness. That cloudy feeling of danger and urgency and fear. The sensation of loss, of being wiped so that he couldn't remember his own face,  couldn't remember Natalie.

“I didn't… my family depends on me and I hoped you would forget whatever happened,” the taxi driver pleaded. “My family and I helped you. I don't know what happened but I have a family. Please remember my daughter. Please…”

Steve looked away when the driver started begging, his heart racing and and the sounds of the  world around him suddenly engulfing, overwhelming. The sound of the driver, competing to speak as fast as the radio _locutor,_ who Steve gathered was raffling off tickets to a festival full for the thirteenth lucky caller. The motor purring like a kitten and his mouth dry as he leaned into the door.

And then he opened his eyes and saw her, walking in front of a group of men in grey suits, her hair swept up and a clipboard shielding her belly. She was speaking then, composed and professional even though he knew those stupid heels were hurting her sciatica and that their son was likely punching her bladder for sport. And it was magic,  because as soon as he saw her the rest of the world went on mute. He should have taken a good deep breath but he saw her and pushed the door open, hard as if opening it might grant him freedom and air. He heard the driver call out for him, registered the slam of fists on the wheel and the bleat of a horn, a dim warning. A warning Steve couldn't even think about because he needed to get to Natalie.

“Natalie,” he cried out and then yelled, and he knew she would be pissed but he didn't care. The taxi driver had known them, known them before, said that ground zero was right here, and Steve would go through heaven and hell  before he let anyone touch her… _(again, a_ voice told him and he started running to the door of the metallic office structure that suddenly looked too large and imposing, too cold for the color and charm of the town that had enveloped him and Natalie in so tightly).

They were in the lobby, his wife and her boss and a group of five men who were listening patiently as she spoke, her attention on whatever notes she was carrying.  Steve slid through the glass double doors and the sound of his sneakers on the marble floor must have been loud enough because then she looked up and met his eyes, her forehead creased in confusion and concern.

“Steve.” She said his name calmly, nodding an unspoken apology to the men around her for the interruption. The agreement had been for him to wait for her outside, not to go bursting in as if he'd lost his mind, and she frowned. He knew he should have said something then, an apology of his own, but he had no regrets about coming or about moving in between two bald men who looked more like bodyguards than scientists who cared anything for Chile and clean energy sources.

“Natalie, I…” He paused because he didn't know what he wanted then except to take her far away. The taxi driver had known them, had been there when they’d lost their minds, lost who they were, and he'd never said anything, the revelation in this causing Steve’s chest to ache and his knees to buckle.  The taxi driver _knew_ , and he'd never said one word, just kept driving Natalie to the office and to whatever monster might be waiting to do more harm to her or to their baby. _Their baby, oh God,_ and Steve reached for her elbow at the very thought.

“Natalie, we need to go,” he said finally and she inhaled, shaking her head like he was asking her for the moon.

“Steve, can you…?” she started, her green eyes meeting his so that she could wordlessly ask him what in the hell was going on.  Soto cleared his throat and a short man with thick rimmed glasses and a lab coat began asking questions in quick and clipped Russian. Natalie responded, telling both to please excuse her, to please grant her a quick minute for her husband's disruption.

“This is your husband?” the scientist spoke up and her cheeks got a shade pinker as she nodded, as she turned to Steve, hand on his shoulder so as to tell him he needed to go as gently as she could.

“Curious,” the scientist murmured, saying something quick like a command to the men around him. Steve heard Soto clear his throat again, heard a cautious “Just wait…” and that was when he turned to look at the audience of suits.

He didn't know Natalie’s boss well but he knew enough that Soto wasn't a cautious man. The hesitation and _deference_ in his voice made Steve stop and focus on the people around him.  These were The Russians, the albatross around his wife's neck. How many nights had she come home exhausted because there was a conference call to the Russians. Because she had to make arrangements for  the Russians. Because Soto needed help communicating an urgent email to the Russians. When he looked them over, he had to question what they were even doing there. He wished they would have stayed faceless boogeymen.

“Señor Roberts, let's go up to my office,” Soto offered even as Steve's attention was divided between pulling Natalie by the hand and staring at the scientist. He had wiry glasses and a fat face that was pinched in concentration. Steve knew that face, had seen that pinched look…

“Steve, wait here and let me go up to get my purse,” Natalie said, meeting his eyes and he nodded, wanting to protect her and tell her even if he still didn't understand it himself. 

“This is your husband,” the scientist repeated again, the murmurs of his colleagues behind him.  “Soto, this is most unexpected…”

Soto’s orange skin paled and Steve pulled his wife closer in reaction, taking a step back. The scientist, he knew him, the knowledge of who he was on the tip of his tongue like a fact, like two plus two and hydrogen and oxygen make water, vibranium is one of the rarest metals on earth and…

The scientist hummed, studying Steve as if he recognized him too,  as if he was waiting for Steve to have the answer.

“And this is the baby, yes?” the scientist asked, his lips curling in a sneer. Steve heard Natalie gasp then, felt her stiffen against him, her body turning away from the men then as if to hide her stomach.

“The baby,” the scientist repeated, as if amused, as if the baby was something unusual and relevant. Soto sighed and nodded to the whispers of the Russians.

“I'm sure it wasn't planned, I assumed the subjects would be more… docile,” Soto explained and Steve watched his wife flinch.

“Docile?” She shook her head, her eyes confused.

“Doesn't matter, let's go,” Steve urged her and they turned toward the door, the sun outside shining like a miracle.

“What do you remember?” the scientist called out. They stopped then, he watched Natalie turn and _fuck they were gullible weren't they because a wise person would have started running._ He could hear Natalie breath out, ragged, her face pained because this had always been the question.

“Do you remember the nursery rhymes, Soldier?”

 _Soldier. Soldier. Soldier._ The word came at him, violent like a thunderclap. There was a nuance there that Steve was sure he was missing, the Scientist was teasing him, baiting him with a clue he couldn't catch, and all he could do was focus on the shallow breathing of his wife and the way her eyes darted back and forth as she fought to make sense of it all.

“Do you remember?” the scientist repeated. You remember don't you, _Чёрная вдова?_ Come on, let's say them.”

Natalie’s grip on his hand went slack and Steve shook his head because this was not right, not right that she looked confused then, eyes wide and her foot forward as though she was being pulled by an invisible thread.

“Is this really necessary?” Soto laughed, nervous, silenced when the scientist held up his hand.

“Come on, let's start together,” he said, speaking gently as though coaxing a child, the sound of his voice suddenly echoing as if far away. Steve shut his eyes and gripped Natalie's hand then, calling her name. He wasn't sure she heard him, wasn't sure his voice was working.

“One, two, buckle my shoe,” the scientist began, extending a hand toward them. How someone could look simultaneously sinister and kind, Steve didn't know but he pulled Natalie toward the door.

She didn't move.

“Three, four, shut the door,” he continued and the suits and Soto moved back, Soto himself swallowing as if a bomb might go off, as if he knew it was time to duck for cover. “Five, six…”

“Pick up sticks.”

The heavy tear that slid down her eye as she finished the rhyme marked her cheek, a track through the foundation and powder he had watched her apply that very morning. Right after they'd made love, right after they’d whispered _I love yous,_ every word honest and true. Steve squeezed her hand and meant to say it again, _l love you, Natalie, let's get away from here, I love you._

“ _Da,_ very good, let's keep going. Seven, eight.”

She was speaking with him then and the sound of her voice, more hollow and vacant with every word, was what terrified him the most.

He missed his own tongue heavy in his mouth, missed the way the words crept up on him, insidious like an infection and on his lips involuntarily. The scientist looked at him and smiled and he wanted to say no, wanted to run, wanted to fight. For Natalie and his son. For himself.

“You have exceeded expectations, Soldier. A baby, what a miracle.” The scientist walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. He wanted to react, to throw a punch, to _run_ but he was glued, only his fingers twitching against Natalie’s and his eyes scanning everything. The doctor’s pockmarked face, inches from his as he squinted his eyes to study Steve. As if Steve was a museum exhibit. An experiment.

“Come on, Soldier. Nine, ten.”

 _Go home, Stevie, a_ ghost murmured. A memory in a dream. Steve’s eyes went to Natalie because he felt frozen, caged, _ambushed._ He could still feel her fingers, soft skin that was real and he tried to move,  tried to break free, because _this is insanity, this is not real._ He opened his mouth to say _go fuck yourself_ and _Natalie, I love you._ He _tried_ but his lips and tongue betrayed him. He was arrested; just a puppet, after all.

“Nine, ten…”

***

_Start again._

***

_“Christ, you are as slow as molasses today…”_

_He opened his eyes and and turned, shifting against that scratchy blanket. His body felt leaded down and he meant to tell her he was still tired, knowing full well she'd get that look and tell him to stay in bed. Bed meant soup or maybe a hot toddy with honey. He meant to ask her to let him stay in bed because then he could finish that sketch, the one of the red haired woman who lived in the room downstairs. The one who had a bun in the oven, even if her husband was never home_

_“Ma, just leave the peaches in the fridge, okay?”_

_“You’re late, Steve,” someone called out and Steve bolted up to match that voice with a face, his heart pounding because he’d forgotten her and forgotten the way she said his name, the way it pinged his heart to hear it._

_“Peggy,” he said. Gilmore Hodge had once teased her, calling her Queen Victoria. Steve had never told her that he’d believed for a minute she might actually be royalty. He knew James was there somewhere, watching him and laughing because there was a dame in his room and he was still in bed._

_And then he was sitting on the sand watching the Coney Island waves, James and his bloody fucking stump, right beside him like an asshole. James had a red and white striped bag of popcorn in one hand, and graciously offered some to Steve as they watched the ocean tide.  
_

_“Where’s Peggy? I just saw…” Steve asked, looking because she’d been a sight for sore eyes and he hadn't even gotten the chance to explain himself or his forgetfulness._

_“Stevie, you got bigger fish to fry than Agent Carter, bigger fish,” James answered, mouth full like there was something he knew that Steve didn't.  A gull dropped down and pecked at the sand before staring up expectantly.  James threw a handful of popcorn its way and huffed out a low laugh and Steve felt dumb for forgetting everything._

_“He’s right though,” she said softly, almost in his ear as if she'd been there all along. She was wearing a white sundress that fanned out over her legs, not her uniform, not like he remembered, and he wondered absentmindedly if she was home now, if the war was over.  “He’s right, it's time to go home, Steve.”_

_***_

“What makes us human?”

The doctor patiently asked his colleagues, even if it was a rather philosophical question. Not his colleagues exactly. Minions, perhaps, because “colleague" implied equality, a ludicrous thought. He asked because even if they were average in intellect, this _could_ serve as a lesson. A teachable moment. The soldier and the spy stood, frozen and expressionless. A reminder of the power in the treatment and the great truth in science.

“Thoughts and feelings, _Ser_ ,” Jacob, young and wiry, suggested. Jacob was foolhardy and sometimes acted before he thought, but his answer was acceptable and the doctor nodded. And then he lifted his hand and slapped the soldier’s cheek hard enough to make his own palm smart. He was not given even a blink of blue eyes, which was only validation that his hypothesis was correct. He would not forget to mention that in his report.

“ _Da,_ but does he feel or think?” He asked, slapping his subject again. The Chilean flinched at the sound. Pathetic.

“He does not, if our procedure worked,” Jacob said and the doctor nodded again. If the procedure worked. The procedure had been crude but apparently effective, and he hoped there would be an opportunity for a second test. They had to confirm reliability and control for the conditions of the initial tests. (Initiation would have been more successful in more sterile conditions, he was certain). Though any further tests on the female subject would have to wait until after the birth…

“ _Ser_ , free will?”

The doctor looked back at Albert and beamed. Albert, who was a year older than Jacob, was quite possibly the doctor’s favorite pupil, a confidant, and the only one who could steal the doctor’s attention away from the data. His mind was as sharp as his lips sweet and the doctor felt the sting of temptation. He ignored it.

“Free will! Excellent, Albert!” he said, walking over to the female subject. He didn't check her eyes, knew she was gone just as her counterpart, but he smiled as if she could hear him anyway.  A habitual little gesture he supposed was more for him than her, considering the state of things.

“But you see,” the doctor then murmured, his stinging hand cupping her soft cheek. “You see, free will is something we can take, can't we? Without free will, are we still human? Are we animals?”

He let his hand slide, past the heaving bosom down to the subject’s stomach. It was a curious surprise, perhaps proof in man’s resistance and instinct to fight, that his subjects had in fact procreated. The kick to his hand made him laugh, his mind on the irony of the subject carrying a human he could not yet control.

“Let's test this,” he said, marveled. Were they animals? Could they be trained? Or were they mindless, more weapon than being? He reached out his hand and a guard offered his pistol, cool and heavier than it looked. He stifled his disgust because he hated guns, instead reaching for the soldier’s hand.

“If we can modify humanity,” he said as he opened the soldier’s palm and then carefully wrapped each finger around the gun, “then we can create miracles.”

The possibilities, he said as he nodded his head and commanded his subject to take aim. The possibility for defense, the efficiency. The subject obeyed, aiming the pistol so neatly at the other participant. As if on command, he would pull the trigger. It gave him a thrill he felt almost safe to admit.

“They are like the undead,” Soto whispered and the doctor rolled his eyes at the dramatics. The soldier and the spy _were_ reminiscent of a film, he admitted, observing the noticeable lack of emotion from either subject. The female would, if he asked, walk right to the gun, would press the barrel to her heart.  Not that he’d ever take the unethical decision to put the offspring at risk. Perhaps a final test, he supposed.

“Natalie?” a voice spoke,  in a small and hesitant voice and he looked over. One of Soto’s employees, the old woman who worked with the female subject, her eyes wide behind bifocals. The doctor sighed and motioned toward the soldier because this was more of an interruption than an unfortunate outside variable. The soldier didn't blink or nod, just aimed and fired, eyes still on the spy. _Magical,_ the doctor thought to himself. Almost as if she was a focal point and he remembered how resistant the soldier had been at their first trial. Almost as if motivation through human love was stronger than electricity and sedatives. _Almost_.

The old lady was eliminated quickly. The doctor ignored Soto’s protests. His elimination would have to be postponed, the doctor decided, taking the hot gun back.

“Shall we put them to bed? I've had a long flight and I'm certain everyone else is still jetlagged.” He decided on postponing further trials, his stomach panging in hunger and his mind on Albert’s cherry lips on his cock. Science could wait, after all, at least until the morning.

***

_“There’s a washrag over there, if you can hurry up about it.”_

_“Go home, Stevie. Nat needs you.”_

_“Free will is something we can take…”_

_***_

_“Here,  put this on.”_

_Steve had been back there on the beach, his focus on the waves, when she spoke. He looked for James, for Peggy, for the owner of the voice. For her.  He looked down, his vision blurry and his head throbbing. A small black box and a plain gold band inside. His wedding ring. When he tried to pick it up, he found he couldn't move, as if paralyzed. When he got his bearings, he remembered that he was dreaming. It was just a dream. Not real, not real._

_“It's a ring,” he said dumbly and she smirked._

_“Do you need me to propose? Do you wanna marry me?” He couldn't tell if she was teasing or not and he started to say that they were already married when she interrupted him._

_“If everything goes according to plan, you won't have to talk so don't worry about lying.” He felt her sit beside him._

_“Lying?” he repeated. She smelled fresh, like soap. He remembered that she smelled like soap because soap was practical and perfume was for missions._

_“You are a horrible liar, Steve.”_

_“But I love you.” He hadn't said it the first time but in the dream, it was important and true. He loved her. It wasn't a lie because he loved her. “Natalie, I love you.”_

_She laughed and he felt instantly stupid. “I'm not Natalie.”_

***

_This isn't right. I shouldn't be alive._

Steve thought it before he’d even opened his eyes, repeated it over and over to himself as he did. Consciousness happened slowly, almost lazily, as his mind clung to his dreams. Natalie and James and…

“Peggy”, he whispered, his eyes snapping open in case she was there. Peggy. Peggy and James, he _knew_ them, though he couldn’t remember how. They’d _warned_ him to wake up, to go home, advice he wasn’t sure he’d even wanted to take because things were bad in the waking life, they weren’t safe and he remembered Natalie, sitting on the bed while he painted her toenails. Natalie, his wife.

Steve sat up and looked over at the form beside him. His wife was still there, sleeping soundly,her hand casually over her belly. They were in bed and he turned to look at the clock on his nightstand because that made no sense, it made no sense that he was waking up in bed because the last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to her as she went on her way to work, when she kissed his lips and promised she’d see him soon, that she was almost done.

“Natalie.”  His throat closed up as he said her name, as he reached out to touch a wisp of her bottle-brown hair. He couldn’t remember her coming home, couldn’t remember them going to bed. She was still wearing her work makeup and he frowned, wondering if maybe she was too tired if she hadn't even wiped her face. She sighed in her sleep and he stilled the alarm bells, the panic at losing time.

He lay back down and curled against her, pulling her close, his lips on the nape of her neck, as he tried in vain to remember their day.

 _Peggy and James._ Steve repeated their names over and over, stuffing the lump in his throat down because they'd told him to wake up and go home and every fiber of his being told him that they should be running.

“Steve, move. I'm hot,” she groaned, shifting against him. He ignored her, holding her tighter because there was a loud voice in his head telling him that they needed to move, that the peace and quiet of their home was an illusion. She reached back and squeezed his thigh affectionately and he moved back so that she could sit up.

“My head hurts and I have to pee,” she announced, her smile wry. “And I can't remember a thing from yesterday, that's how much this baby is kicking my ass.”

Steve frowned and opened his mouth to tell her that he’d lost the day too, that he couldn't remember either.  But she grimaced and clutched at her rib cage and he held back, letting her hoist herself up and waddle to the bathroom.

“What do you remember?” he called out as he got up, as he rummaged through a pile of clothes on the floor for some pants.  He remembered  his dream, James and Peggy and Natalie. He’s dreamed of her, dreamed of someone like her and he looked down at his ring, suddenly confused about what counted as real and what was just a dream.

“Natalie,” he called, en route to the kitchen to put the kettle on. “I dreamed that you proposed.” Proposed in a manner of speaking.  He remembered that she'd given him the ring and he remembered that even in his dream, he’d been in love with her.

He was in the kitchen when he saw the pistol  on the table, the sight of it hitting him violently and he stopped and stared frozen at it, the memories flooding back in scrambled pieces that had him bowing over as if he'd been punched in the gut.

 _One two, buckle my shoe._ He could hear the rhyme, could hear his own wife recite it with dead eyes and her body no longer her own. There had been darkness, he remembered darkness and a dull panic, a scratching, like a rat in the attic. _Free will is something we can take._

He remembered. He remembered the taxi driver’s anxious confession, remembered his wife and the Russians and begging her to come with him because something was wrong, they weren't safe. He remembered the nursery rhyme as he gripped the countertop and choked for air. He remembered until he didn't and he remembered that they weren't safe anymore, that maybe they'd never been safe.

“Natalie,” he croaked, looking back towards the silent bathroom, too silent, not one sign of life inside. “Natalie…”

He raced back, feet all but slipping and his body all but crashing into the door because she was too quiet and the Russians. _If they'd done something…_

“Natalie!” he repeated her name, his fist on the door and his mind on how still she'd been, on the Russian scientist's sneer as he… _as he controlled them._ “Natalie, open!”

She flung the door open and he was granted only a second of relief because her face was pale and her eyes told him something was wrong. He scanned her quickly and saw the way she clutched her stomach, saw the way the fabric of her nightgown clung to her legs, soaked and water dribbling down her calves.

“Steve,” she trembled and then  moaned, leaning into the doorway suddenly as if she could barely stand. “I  need Doctor Velasco now, the baby…”

“The baby?” he echoed. “What happened, what did they do?”

“They?” She shook her head and smiled weakly, her chest heaving as she was hit with another  wave of  pain. “Steve, no the baby is... I think my water broke. I think he’s coming.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down  
> Yeah, we couldn't destroy a single one  
> And history books forgot about us  
> And the Bible didn't mention us, not even once”
> 
> -Samson, Regina Spektor


	17. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written in the midst of a really awful time for me personally. As I wrote the last section, I felt a bit of relief? Because this was a scene I've been waiting to write for 2 years. And because, somehow, this has become an intensely personal story for me. I appreciate that you are reading it.

_I came across a fallen tree_  
_I felt the branches of it looking at me_  
_Is this the place we used to love?_  
_Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?_  
_Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?_  
_I'm getting old, and I need something to rely on_  
_So tell me when you're gonna let me in_  
_I'm getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin_

  
_-Somewhere Only We Know, Keane_

 

 

_***_

_I can't do this._

Natalie gripped the door frame, her breath shallow, and tried to think anything else, tried to feel strong and capable even as the  thought crept in and repeated itself over and over in her mind.

“I can't...I can't  do this,” she admitted out loud, right as another wave of pain hit her. Another contraction and she was panting, her heart racing because it was time but it was also too soon, the baby was supposed to wait another week or two. They hadn't prepared, they didn't have a bag packed for the hospital, she hadn't put sheets on the mattress in the crib, and she had promised Soto the rest of the week until the Russians went home.

“Steve, I can't have this baby,” she whimpered. She must have sounded insane, but she thought he was equally terrified, he had turned as white as their walls. _Nervous,_ she smiled weakly because he was likely as unprepared as she felt, the suddenness of this moment something they had ignored, both of them pretending that time wasn't flying.

“Now? Are you sure?” he asked, his eyes on the wet of her gown. Nodding, she reached for his hand, squeezing it tight in anticipation of the contraction she knew was coming. She'd tried brushing them off at first, the waves of pain and the urge to relieve herself as that last miserable part of pregnancy. Nothing new and clear signs her body was getting ready. But then the pain didn't stop, just kept rolling into her, each wave stronger. She’d tried to think of other things. Hazy memories of the Russians the day before, the plan to be present for a tour of the factory that Soto had planned. The gaps in her memory left her feeling cold and she knew she _should_ remember, the very fact that she had forgotten stealing any hope she had at recovery.

She'd woken that morning with him pressed against her and the memories slipping through her fingers like sand. More lost time, more questions. She wondered if that was a side effect of amnesia; moments and hours and now days that felt stolen from her.

It was as if her mind would always be missing information, as if she would never fully know who she was or who she had been.  She hoped she could fake the memories of the day before, hoped her boss would find empathy somewhere when she pretended hormones and her pregnancy brain had erased her account of the previous day. For a split second, she entertained the idea that Steve had been right, that perhaps she needed to go on leave sooner rather than later. When she thought about the office, the glass and the sterility, an unexplainable panic washed through her, as if her body was growing averse.

And then the water, a steady flood between her legs that she couldn't control.

“We need to get the taxi…” They needed to go to the hospital, needed their doctor and her heart sped up because this was happening too fast, too soon and she could only hope the small town hospital was equipped.

“No!” Steve shouted, making her jump and she raised an eyebrow because how the hell else did he expect her to get to the hospital? His brow furrowed and he shook his head, and she thought maybe he was confused about how much time they had. He looked desperate and sad, not at all excited the way she thought he would, and she wished she had magic words to make him move.

“I am in labor, Steve,” she said as plainly as she could, her chest heaving as anxiety set in. They were having a baby, ready or not, and she didn't feel like she could wait for him to realize the hurry and the rush. Another contraction rolled in and she pressed her face into his shoulder, gasping into the cloth of his t-shirt because it hurt so goddamned bad.

“Natalie,” he whispered thickly, his free hand on her hair. When she looked up at him, about to tell him he was fucking crazy, he swallowed, eyes wild and watery and heightening her fear. _I can't do this, oh fuck,_ she thought again because if _he_ was afraid, they were probably doomed.

But Doctor Velasco had told her once that she had maternal instincts and when she felt the hard bump of the baby's body, she suddenly felt braver, as if those instincts were kicking in.

The neighbor boy opened the door next door not five minutes later, his eyes still slits from sleep, and confusion on his face. All Steve said was “my wife... _bebe,”_ and Natalie groaned, leaning into him through another contraction, the sound perhaps clearer communication of urgency than any fumbling of her husband's words. 

Their neighbor’s girlfriend appeared, hardly clothed in her lover’s Green Day shirt, and took only one look before things got moving. She pushed his shoulder, exasperated that he hadn't reacted. “Look, _hueón,_ she's having her baby! Move your ass!”

In all of her fantasies about having the baby, Natalie had never imagined she'd be en route to the hospital, clutching Steve tight as the neighbor girl drove them through town in their red truck, her boyfriend sitting in the cargo area over the wheel, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. Steve’s hand clutched her arm, his body so tight with worry, and she willed the baby to wait just a little longer. Old Spanish rock music played on the radio, songs of love and possession, and she thought faintly that she was dying, each contraction taking her breath away.

“I can't do this,” she moaned, trying not to push, trying to regain some control over her body. The truck swerved sharply and the neighbor girl leaned her head out to yell at some asshole who needed to learn how to drive, _conchatumare._ Steve shifted in his seat, asking her to please hurry but also begging her to please not run anyone over, and Natalie smiled into his arm because she loved him.

The truck screeched to a halt and then Steve was pushing open the door and lifting her out. “Help,” she said to no one and to everyone. In his arms, she felt safer and safer still when he carried her inside, much to the alarm of the nurses at the desk right at the entrance.

Everyone around her moved fast. One nurse picked up a phone, presumably to call the doctor, another bringing a wheelchair, and she would have rolled her eyes when he refused to put her down but she was too busy with the pain. They all told her to remain calm, the nurses adding that she could not push, not yet, and she nodded, her eyes focused on her husband as he carried her to a room and lay her gently on a bed.

“Señora Roberts, today is the day?” Doctor Velasco walked up, his smile calm and reassuring, and she exhaled slowly, instinctively. She felt a portion of relief because Velasco had been with them since the beginning and he was safe, but then Steve had him by the lapels and was slamming him into the door, his jaw tight and his eyes angrier than Natalie had ever seen. A nurse yelped and the neighbor girl yelled, _(what the fuck, man!),_ and Natalie gripped the bed on instinct, her eyes scanning her husband for an explanation. He'd been _off_ all morning, keyed up and tightly wound, and she shut her eyes tight because she couldn't think about him _and_ the chaos of her body.

“Who are you,” Steve growled and she turned, reaching out for him because something was wrong but she wasn't going to have the baby without him so that something was going to have to wait.

“Armando Velasco, Señor.” The doctor spoke calmly, softly even as his face paled, his head nodding to the nurses that he was ok and that there was no need to panic. “I am a doctor at this hospital and have been for the last five years. Before that I did residency in the capital. I grew up here. I live with my own wife and two sons, Andrés and Felipe. My mother in law lives there too. I work long hours here. And I have been your family's doctor for almost a year.”

Steve scoffed, his grip tightening, and Natalie called to him, her heart pounding. It was funny how time sped up but also slowed down, the labor of her body delivering their son and the sight of her husband, gentle and patient, threatening their doctor. The possibility of what was happening heightened the fear and she tried not to scream, teeth gritted in pain. _Not now. He remembers, he remembers, oh God but not now._ He wasn't a stranger, not anymore, but the parts of him from before _were_ strange and she feared what he remembered, how it would change him.

“Don't lie to me.” Steve shook the doctor, who nodded fervently _._

“This is the truth,” he answered. “ And now your wife is going to give you a son. She needs a doctor. Let me help.”

Natalie scanned the room again, everyone on edge and only the neighbor girl at her side, her hand the one Natalie was clutching through contractions. “ _Concha,_ you’re going to break my fucking hand,” she whispered and Natalie breathed, able to relax her grip in the interval. The contractions were only minutes apart then, and her body kept wanting to push, as if totally separate from her brain.  An older nurse glanced quickly at Steve and Doctor Velasco before rushing to her feet so that she could gently and quietly lift her gown to peek between her legs. Natalie whined, angry at Steve for not being by her side and angry that the baby was coming and angry at the pain.

“Steve, _stop,”_ she panted. “Whatever is happening, whatever you remember, we are safe.” She hardly knew what she was saying, was just rambling so he would let the doctor go, and his blue eyes met hers, scared and pleading and something in them so lost.

“Let me help your wife,” Velasco repeated and Steve glared, as if to make sure Velasco knew he would hurt him if anything happened to the baby. The nurse interrupted them all to say that the doctor needed to hurry because Natalie was already at a seven.

 _Seven._ As in seven centimeters dilated and ready to start pushing because the nurse swore she could see hair.

“If you hurt her,” Steve warned, his grip relaxing until the doctor's feet touched the linoleum floor.  The doctor nodded before moving to her feet.  Nurses surrounded her then, one prepping her arm for an IV and another helping her feet into stirrups. Someone put an oxygen mask over her face and her heart raced because Doctor Velasco was speaking so fast, telling her it was okay and that she could start pushing.

“I can't do this,” she said, shaking her head and inhaling the chemical smell of the mask, because she was sure she couldn't until she felt her husband by her side, his palm on her sweaty forehead.

He looked as scared as she felt but he was wholly there then, his attention on her, and she started to cry.

“You can do this, Natalie,” he told her. “You can do this, I know you can.”

“Steve, don't you dare leave me,” she gritted, her body and mind tired. “Don't leave me.” She felt delirious, her mind fogged with only brief thoughts and suddenly all of her focused on the baby and the hope that it would all be over soon.

He kissed her apologetically, the anger and the tension fading away as if never there at all, and she wanted to say then that she loved him but another wave hit and then she was pushing.

The nurses grabbed her knees and pushed them toward her chest and Natalie screamed with every push, every wave of pain. Steve held her hand through it all and that made her cry, because even with the faraway panic that he remembered, he was still there. He murmured words of encouragement in her hair and told her she was so strong, that he loved her and that she would always be safe with him. And just when Natalie was sure she couldn't go any longer, couldn't push, couldn't breathe, couldn't think, the pressure between her legs was relieved, the euphoria instant.

“ _Felicidades,_ it's a boy!”

In seconds, Natalie was sobbing, tired and overwhelmed. “The baby? How is he?” She didn't care about how frantic she sounded because the need to see him was urgent, as if her heart refused to beat until she had confirmation that he was alright.

And then she heard the cry, strong and piercing, and Steve had left her side so that he could see. The doctor and nurses crowding around a small table, Steve’s shoulders up to his ears as he looked.

“Steve, is he okay?” she asked again, needing to know. He looked over, his eyes so wide as if he'd just seen something holy, and then he was by her side, kissing her lips tenderly.

“Natalie, he’s perfect,” he promised and she didn't have time to wonder because a nurse was bringing a diapered, ashy pink _thing_ over. The top of her gown was pushed down so that the warm creature could lay gently there and Natalie didn't have time or headspace to second guess herself because the baby squawked softly. It's small mouth curled, searching and Natalie held her breath as she reached up to touch tiny hands and the soft of its skin.

“ _Tiene hambre,”_ the nurse said and Natalie watched, passive even with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, as hands rather roughly guided her son's mouth down toward her breast.

Natalie had amassed many memories post-amnesia, some vivid and treasured and some fleeting. The moments when she'd awoken. The days and nights with Steve.  She remembered making love on their kitchen floor, naked and giggling over a package of popsicles. She remembered early kisses in the taxi. She remembered feeling as if he was a stranger, the fear.

The baby at her breast, sucking hard, a new pain hitting her, sharp and yet dull, and she thought he couldn't possibly be getting any food from her. She committed the pride she felt and the _bliss_ to her collection of memories. The squint of his eyes and the way his small body balled up as if it still believed it was in the womb.  On instinct, she reached up and smoothed her palm over his hair, light and soft, too wet for her to tell the degree of blond versus red. He was beautiful.

“He'll have a bath after you get time to meet him,” Doctor Velasco announced, stepping over, and she nodded, her focus turning to Steve.

“Hey,” he said when their eyes met, his forehead creased and his grin wide and suddenly worth all of her suffering.  And she knew it then, knew with all certainty, that her heart belonged to him as much as to the unnamed child asleep on her chest.

 _I love you._ She didn't say it out loud, biting down on her lip instead. He’d remembered something, there was no doubt in her mind, and when she weighed the meaning of it, her heart was full of trepidation. She was afraid of what he remembered, afraid to lose what they had in the innocence of amnesia. When Steve told her he loved her, he said it freely and she knew she owed him those words in return. But saying them was hard, they were heavy on her tongue when she thought of them. _Now is the time,_ she told herself,  staring up at him as her heart beat against their son. But he remembered something and when she opened her mouth, she couldn't say them.

“What are we going to name him?” She asked instead and he smiled, shaking his head.

“I have no idea.”

She pulled her gown up so that it covered the baby and kissed his head, inhaling the smell of him.

“It will come,” she said, speaking of the name as much as of her hesitations.

 

***

 

The first time Clint saw his ex-wife, bent over a pool table and five seconds away from hustling five rookie field agents, his heart went into his throat and knew he was going to marry her. He watched, nursing his beer, as she played up the nerdy scientist bit, a giggle and flush of her face as every single asshole there figured she was easy money.  He didn’t even know her name to know they were sitting ducks.

 _Eight ball, corner pocket._ She’d looked over her shoulder and winked right at him as she cleaned up the game and he started calculating how to get her number, how he’d explain how hard it would be to maintain more than a casual relationship, what with his job. He was still on probation, the screws tight because Coulson vouched for him but that side job in Boca Raton looked dubious as hell. The Powers That Be thought he saw SHIELD as a temporary gig and they weren't wrong, though one look at Barbara Morse counting the twenties she’d just scammed off the agents had him suddenly thinking long term.

_I'm gonna marry her._

He proposed later that night, his mouth on her throat and his ass in the air as they fucked in a grungy bar bathroom, her cheeks flushed and those nails scraping his back and nape of his neck. _‘M gonna marry you, Bobbi,_ he told her and she kissed him hard, mumbling ‘yeah, okay’ as her cunt clenched his cock and someone outside banged on the door for them to hurry up.

They got married in Vegas a week later and spent the weekend fucking in a tacky golden honeymoon suite, a literal heart shaped bathtub and all. It was the happiest week of his life.

And they were good together, seamless. Days melted into weeks and months and in the beginning, she didn't care that he was emotionally constipated and he overlooked her never ending need to always be right, to always have the last goddamn word.  Until she was accepting risky assignments without even telling him and he was coming home with slips of napkin in his pockets. Phone numbers from Jill or Julie or Maddie in accounts payable. They never meant a thing but every one was a knife to Bobbi's heart. He was a selfish, selfish asshole for not fighting for her.

 _We would never work,_ she told him after the umpteenth argument, mascara streaking her face and her hand on her black roller suitcase. He didn't believe her but he didn't stop her either because he knew she deserved better.

And yet, somehow he still wished he’d been a better husband, a better man for her.  He thought about how good they were when they were good and tried not to feel sorry for himself as he watched her carefully wrap up Natasha’s wine glasses in newspaper.

They’d both been dragging their heels about it, packing Natasha’s things to a storage unit a few blocks away, her apartment up for rent at the end of the month. Clint figured he’d rent it to a couple of agents or maybe a group of interns, none of them needing to know that their new home was likely haunted by a legend. He couldn't have done it without Bobbi, couldn't have even seriously considered it. But she brought boxes and donuts and held his hand.

 _It's okay to feel, Clint,_ she whispered softly. _It's okay to grieve._

He didn't tell Wilson, who he knew struggled over the same dilemma with Steve, his heart hoping that if he packed slowly, she’d still come home, appearing like a mirage.

It felt criminal, moving the life she’d created. The cups and silverware. The towels. Every momento and memory, everything that formed the fabric of her home. He didn't want to do it. So his ex-wife pulled her hair into a ponytail and showed up, her ratty old Georgia Tech t-shirt on and her hand in his, the gentle reminder that he didn't have to do it alone.

In Nat's bedroom, he let her pack Nat's secrets.  He could handle the jackets and the shoes but the pictures, the little pieces of _her_ \- Bobbi handled them solemnly and he wasn't too proud to admit his relief.

“They were in love with each other,” she said when she was finished, just as he'd started moving boxes to the door. Nat's cat jumped on a box marked “Kitchen” and meowed. Clint folded his arms and sighed, nodding because it didn't matter anymore.

“Bobbi, maybe _he_ was…” He must have sounded defeated because she rolled her eyes and handed him a couple of photographs.  He remembered it, a few of them at a bar in DC, shooting the shit. It was Nat who'd invited Rogers at all and she’d later said it was to get him out of his head, his isolation something she thought unhealthy. Clint had just shrugged at the time, noncommittal because he knew better than to argue with Nat but maybe also because who was he to judge another man's PTSD?

They'd only gone out for drinks and a few lazy games of darts, Clint letting the others win and Rogers mostly hanging back with his Coca Cola. A mostly forgettable night and Clint couldn't even remember who had taken their picture. But there it was, the three of them in vivid color and smiling casually. It made Clint's heart hurt.

Nat sandwiched between them, a bottle on her lips hiding her smirk, Clint's arm around her shoulder tight. And Steve, eyes on her in a way Clint hadn't seen before, in a way that gave him pause, had him leaning against a wall and feeling stupid. 

He hadn't seen it but when he thought hard, he guessed he had. The lingering glances during meetings, the way Steve said her name after a while. Not ‘Agent Romanoff’ or ‘Romanoff’, not even Natasha. _Nat._ He'd ignored it, maybe on purpose, but then he flipped to the second picture and felt like a goddamn fool.

It was mostly the same picture, though by then she'd put the bottle down and Clint cursed to see it. The small touch of fingers, her pinky arched and covering the Captain's. A stolen touch even though her body was leaning into Clint.

“I'll be damned,” he murmured and Bobbi raised an eyebrow triumphantly.  “Where did you even find these?”

She lifted a shoulder as if she wasn't thrilled to be right all along about them. “Next to the Chilean bear…”

“Texas,” Clint corrected her and she rolled her eyes.

“Chile, Clint. Google it.”

He ignored her and glanced back at the pictures, suddenly feeling more hope than he'd felt in almost a year. “Bobbi, this might mean…”

Bobbi grinned. “Told you she'd wanna run away with him and get to know that ass.”

 

***

 

The nurse had to show them how to change the baby's diaper.

Steve watched the nurse change his son and swaddle him tight, and he tried to memorize every move. He’d be lying if he said he wasn't worried he'd mess it up. He couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what was a dream anymore. Natalie was real, the baby was real.

The memory of the gun in his hand, the memory of the Russian scientist standing squinty-eyed in front of him. That felt real too.

Natalie didn't remember.  He sat beside her hospital bed and covered his mouth with his hands as she held their son and cooed tenderly, little Russian phrases tumbling from her lips.  “He has your nose,” she said, her eyes sparkling, and he just nodded. She didn't react with alarm when the taxi driver's wife came, carrying a small bouquet of flowers and a yellow knitted blanket. She didn't seem fearful at all, instead shooting Steve a look when he started questioning the taxi driver's wife about who she really was. He realized with a heavy heart that Natalie didn't remember. That it was up to him to remember for her, up to him to keep her and his son safe.

He held the baby, still unnamed, while she slept, and planned, his mind tired but still sharply aware of the danger waiting for them. He didn't remember all of it, couldn't figure out exactly who the Russians were or why they'd stolen his memories, his life. He reviewed in his mind wisps and flashes, echoes of tension and threats of violence. He remembered feeling paralyzed, his mind heavy. He remembered that his purpose, as long as he was conscious, was to grab Natalie’s hand and run.

The baby was a sleepy little miracle who nuzzled against his shirt and grunted. Steve kissed his head and wondered if the boy should stay nameless. As if being without a name might keep him safe from an identity. The baby was innocent and defenseless, and Steve tried not to hold him too tight as he planned the escape his family and would take once they were discharged. They had the money to escape, he figured by way of Argentina. As far as it took because he'd die before he let someone into their heads again.

“What do you remember?” She asked as he kissed the top of his son's sweet-smelling head, the tuft of strawberry blond hair so fine and soft under his lips. He looked over at her and swallowed, not sure how much to say.

“You remember something,” she said wisely. “It scares me.”

He didn't look at her right away, ashamed because he wanted to keep his memories secret for reasons he couldn't even explain. He felt her eyes on him and knew she'd wait patiently for an answer, knew she wouldn't rest until he told her the full truth. He nearly admitted that she had good reason to be scared, but he held back because the baby sighed and he _knew_ it was his job as a man, husband and father, to protect his family.

“Don't leave me in the dark,” she whispered,  pleading. “We’re in this together.”

He shook his head and reached for her hand. “Together, Natalie. I promise on my life “

She frowned and swallowed, seemingly unconvinced and unsatisfied with his answer. But then the baby started to cry, possibly hungry, Steve had no idea. He handed the child to her and when she pulled her breast out, he stood up to get some fresh air. He loved her, his heart heavy at not being honest with her, though he rationalized quickly that it was better to wait until he had a clear idea of what was real and true. Until he knew who was safe and who the wolves were.

 

***

Sam Wilson was fucking depressing.

He stood at the front of the lecture hall and reminded the veterans to practice daily grace and self-care. A small group for non-traumatic brain injury vets who were struggling to reintegrate. A side gig Wilson had buried himself into after Rogers’ went MIA, and Clint had to admit it was pretty poetic. Something maybe done to honor Steve or maybe to distract.  Wilson’s eyes swept kindly over every sad-faced, shell-shocked soldier there, the one sitting beside Clint and Bobbi sniveling in such a way that it got on every one of Clint's nerves, and Clint squeezed his ex-wife’s hand just so he wouldn't get up and leave.

On a normal day, Bobbi might hiss that his inability to face his own trauma was exactly his fucking problem. She squeezed his hand back instead, a mercy he appreciated.

He nodded at Wilson, signaling that they needed to talk, before blocking out the shares, the stories the veteran’s shared about being at home. He wasn't there for therapy, even if his mind went back to Desert Storm and hours of boredom before minutes of death.

“Did you come here to check up on me?”

Wilson's first words after everyone had cleared out. He stood in front of them, arms crossed and scowling. Clint couldn't blame him, he’d been an asshole about Steve since the beginning.

“Bobbi found something,” he said calmly, pulling the pictures out of his jacket. Wilson raised an eyebrow and reached out his hand.

“They left together,” Clint explained.

“No fucking shit."

“So I think they are together.”

Sam made a face and Bobbi cleared her throat,  interrupting to do damage control, her voice sweet then and cutting through any tension.  “I think they left on holiday. I think they were dating.”

Sam furrowed his brow then, his eyes moving back to the photographs. Clint expected him to deny it, to say that he knew Steve and would have known if he was in a relationship. But he pursed his lips instead. “So? Doesn't say where they are?”

That was true. But it _was_ a clue, something that gave Clint hope, every instinct he had ringing like a fire alarm. He sat back in his chair and meditated over how to respond.

“It's something.”

 

***

 

On the third day, Natalie walked around the hospital floor and the doctor said that their son had passed all of his newborn tests, and Steve held his breath as they were given permission to go home. Velasco cornered him in the hallway outside her door and granted permission, his face sober as he questioned Steve's own health.

“I understand babies bring new stress. Are you going to be…”

Steve looked down and nodded because Natalie had already argued with him in hushed tones about threatening their doctor. As far as she knew, he was safe. The doctor gave Steve an earnest pat on the back and he thought _maybe,_ maybe the doctor was who he said he was. There was no way to prove either way and so Steve resolved to say whatever the doctor needed to hear. Whoever the doctor really was, the more distance between him and Steve's family, the better.

The taxi driver, white as a sheet, refused to look at Steve or even Natalie. Just as well because Steve could barely breathe, his body tight as they sat in the backseat. He wanted to take the taxi driver somewhere, wanted to slam his face against the hood of the sedan and make him talk, make him say everything.

Steve’s anxiety flooded into Natalie and he hated it.  She clutched the baby tight, her eyes always scanning, one hand clutching the doorknob as if she knew she might have to escape. She didn't remember, or at least she said she didn't. He believed her. He ached for her.

He ached for what he still couldn't remember, the loss something he thought he'd grieved.

“What about Stefan Junior,” she asked as they fumbled their way into their home. She had a smirk on her lips that said she thought it was a dumb idea, and he relaxed just a little because it felt like ages since they'd shared a joke. He walked with her to their bed and helped her and his son lay gently down, letting himself linger on the sight.

“You should check the house,” she said, a wisdom in her voice that said she knew his memories meant danger. He kissed her cheek and then his son, grateful she trusted him to keep them safe.

_From what? From who?_

He walked around their small house, checking the windows, looking around for any signs they were being watched. The gun was still on the kitchen counter, forgotten in the chaos and he picked it up, shoving it in his pants, the steel against his stomach like a cold reminder of how fucked he felt. He remembered it, his hand clammy on the grip, his finger on the trigger as though it was someone else's and _oh God, he'd pulled that trigger and… had he shot someone? Did he…_

The baby cried, saving him from from his spiraling thoughts, and he rushed to the bedroom to check on his family. His _family._ Natalie, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, pacing around the room with a crying infant. His family, his _home,_ and he couldn't imagine anything happening to them. 

“I feel so gross,” she whimpered, looking at him. “He won't stop. I've changed him. He isn't hungry…”

Steve held his hands out and she handed him his son, red-faced and wailing. Natalie collapsed onto the bed, her hands cupping her own breasts then, swollen and hard as her milk came in. He hoped she would find him heroic to take the baby into the other room so that she could shower.

“You can't… feed him,” she said, her eyes darting to the blue and white pacifier sitting on their dresser and provided by the hospital, the very one she’d said she was afraid to use because she wanted the baby to nurse. “I can be fast.”

Steve leaned down and kissed her lips, his fingers stroking her cheek gently. “You aren't gross. Take as long as you need, Natalie. It will be good for me and the baby.”

She looked like she might cry then so he grabbed the pacifier and a blanket before moving into the living room, looking over his shoulder to again promise her that he and the baby would be fine.

He did worry, at first, that he was in over his head. Swaddling the baby as tight as he remembered the nurse doing it, Steve walked around the rest of the house, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet on creaky floorboards as he whispered and shushed. The pacifier really did the trick, much to his relief and then he was able to pause and stare at the bundle in his arms.

It was hard to tell who the child resembled, his eyes closed and the sounds of his soft sucking competing with the faraway sounds of Natalie's shower.  What he knew, unequivocally, was that he wanted to do right by his son. His past, the foggy memories- Steve had to wonder, not for the first time, if there'd been a reason their memories had been wiped clean. The ultimate second chance.

“I never realized how much noise our floor makes.”

He turned and smiled at his wife, fresh faced and weary eyed, her hair still wet and clumped on her bare shoulders. “You should sleep. While he sleeps.”

Natalie groaned and padded over, her feet bare and toenails still red from when he'd painted them. He leaned forward a little so that she could kiss his lips quickly. “If he's asleep, you should join me. You haven't slept either.”

Steve looked down at the baby and shrugged. As tired as he felt, he wasn't sure he could sleep, not until they were safe.

“Sure, I'll be right there.”

****

 

“So what's this cat's name, anyway?” Sam asked, scratching its head as the stood in front of the map Clint had tacked to his living room wall. Clint shrugged because he’d never figured it out, instead drawing a circle around Chile in black Sharpie.

It was the first circle he’d drawn though there were push pins everywhere. Red thumbtacks for the places he’d been, blue for places he knew Nat had been, the two colors overlapping in most places. He’d been to South America, looked in quiet corridors of Montevideo and then safe houses up through Quito and Medellin. Each contact, each small apartment turning up nothing that was explicitly _Nat._  

He’d even grazed Chile, staying in Valparaiso by the port, his own contacts affirming silence and nothing but innocent shipping containers.

“Why don't you have any tacks for Steve?"

Bobbi raised an eyebrow at Sam’s question and Clint frowned at his map.

“Because…” he said slowly, trying to make out why he’d focused on Nat. Because he knew Nat,  knew where she’d hide. 

“I mean, we’ve been here,” Sam said, taking the Sharpie and marking a city outside Moscow with a star. “Fucking cold, obviously. And here and here. Here and it was hilarious because the only bed we found was in this lame ass hostel full of cats…”

Mexico City, Shanghai, Vancouver.

Santiago.

“Yeah, we flew in because he had a lead that Barnes had been seen. Something about nonprofit agencies talking to Red Room Scientists.”

“Red Room,” Bobbi echoed, her eyes on Clint as the pieces started to fall together. If Steve was following a Red Room lead, there was only one person he could ask for help.

***

 

It was in pacing over that creaky plank of flooring that Steve started to worry he’d lost his mind. The other floorboards were silent, innocently doing what they were created to do. When he crouched down and dug his fingernails into the crack between boards, it was mostly out of insanity, to see if he could fix the floor.

And a bit of paranoia.

It was the fear that someone was watching them, listening to them. That their privacy had been an illusion, their home nothing but smoke and mirrors. A creaky floorboard was creaky for a reason.

He could hear Natalie, softly snoring with her breasts out and their baby sleeping in the crook of her arm, her skin smelling like sweat and milk, and the very idea of the Russians listening made his blood boil. They needed to move, needed to escape and Steve rolled around the idea of moving first thing in the morning as he used his fingernails and then a butter knife to pry the floorboard off.

It was dusty, earth-smelling, and he tried to stifle the cough. And what he expected was darkness or the ground. But he saw the glint of silver, of red and blue, his heart stopping and his breath stopping right with it.

And then he couldn't believe it. Couldn't _understand even,_ what he was looking at or if it was even real. It looked like a hallucination, his mind finally capitulating.

He reached down, hurried and feverish and his fingers grazed cool metal. Confirmation and he choked out a strangled sob. _Vibranium._

Two more planks were sacrificed for him to pull it out, for him to smooth shaky hands over the circumference, the dents from those bullets Peggy’d fired all those years ago. His arm laced through the leather straps automatically and he sat back in his heels in wonder.

Holding his shield, Steve remembered.

Steven Grant Rogers. Born in Brooklyn on Independence Day in 1920 to Joseph and Sarah. Steve, who signed up for Project Rebirth and the Super Soldier Serum, just so he could serve. Steve Rogers, Captain America, _buy those bonds, each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy's gun._ It all came back, so fast he grit his teeth and gripped the leather tight, room spinning. Red Skull, Bucky, the ice and the slow death as water filled his lungs, so fucking cold as his blood froze…

And then he remembered her. Her red hair that he used to imagine was soft, her green eyes hiding anything that might give her away as she walked him over the helicarrier to meet Banner. Those eyes, so trained to tell you what you want to see, except that he’d seen fear and lust and anger and even she had tells, not that she’d admit it.

She’d been his friend. He’d always loved her, even when he’d been afraid to. Hell, he’d tried not to because he had some sense and knew enough to know she couldn't…

The tears were quiet, mercifully, and he rubbed them into his shield with his thumb as he remembered putting the floorboards down the first time. A precaution, _we won't need anything now anyway, not for recon. This is cake, Rogers, you can buy me a drink to thank me later._ She’d tossed the phone in with his shield and her bracelets, her eyes flirty then.

Steve reached back into the floor and smiled, his heart aching because it was bittersweet,  wasn't it? The answers, the truth right there below them. His hand found the phone quickly and he scrambled to push the power button on the side. 

_Home._

The splash screen gave way to a blank purple home screen and when Steve touched the telephone icon, he found only one contact.

_Home._

When he heard the ring of the other number,  he at first assumed and then hoped no one would answer. Where had they been? Why hadn't they come? He thought of his son and the need to protect was suddenly heavier than any desire to be rescued.

On the fifth ring, someone answered.

“Hello?”

And Steve couldn't speak, his tongue weighed down as the memories crashed into him, the reality that they'd been stranded on a metaphorical desert island and someone might finally see the S.O.S.

He finally answered carefully, his voice gravelly and low. 

“It’s...me…”


End file.
